Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. ‘She’s gone. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her.
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