Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. I am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved. ‘Here we go again. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. She had a feeling as though something had dropped from her eyes, as though she had just discovered herself for the first time—discovered herself as a sleepwalker might do, abruptly among dangers, hindrances, and perplexities, on the verge of a cardinal crisis.
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