‘Bring her to me and we shall see. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. All right! I’m off. ’ Pierced to the heart by the poignancy of this utterance, Gerald could neither move nor speak.
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