For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. Um. All right! I’m off. Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me.
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