Gerald at once lowered his voice to that intimate level again, and leaned towards her. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. It is useless to trace out her miserable career; though I can easily do so if you require it.
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