I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life. ‘Nothing would do for her but to come here,’ grumbled Hilary, wiping his heated brow with a pocket handkerchief dragged from his immaculate white uniform breeches. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening.
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