‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. “Pray accept my apologies. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father. She loved to be told to do things. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward.
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