His hand shook so violently that
he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not
stoop. In a little while—to-morrow—all
these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was
yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with
his back to the unlit gas-fire. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still
crooked underneath her chin. The unequal battle went on. CHAPTER XXIV
Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. Wood, carving for his friends, and pledging the
carpenter, he had his hands full. Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the
vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one
of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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