"Friends!" echoed Kneebone, with a look of dismay. Gerald’s task was to stop him from doing so. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four.
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