Come into the parlour, Winifred, and dry your eyes directly, or I'll send you to bed. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel.
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