"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Your maid has twenty minutes to pack your dressing case for one night, and you have the same time to change into a travelling dress. This left Spurlock alone. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate husband's—" "Execution, you would say, Sir," added Mrs. ‘Gerald had to change both shirt and breeches. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. ” There was a strange look in her face, the look of a frightened child. .
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