"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It is extraordinary. ’ ‘Poor little devil,’ said Gerald, genuinely sorry for her. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. I thought you understood. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls.
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