His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. They should never come into contact with politics or economics—or any of those things. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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