It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. All your faults are just jolly modelling to make you real and solid. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. All these things spoke of peace;—but there are seasons when the pleasantest external influences have a depressing effect on the mind, by painfully recalling past happiness.
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