At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. ‘But you are idiot. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams.
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