He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The terrors and anxieties of the last few months seemed to have fallen from her, to have passed away like an ugly dream, dismissed with a shudder even from the memory. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. Say I will come to him. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is.
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