At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir. ” “If it were all true,” he said doggedly, “it may still be possible.
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