Her tone was icy. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. ’ ‘I didn’t bring him,’ Gerald returned swiftly. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. stare.
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