‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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