‘Oh, peste,’ she cried out in distressed tones. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. I done just what you asked. But did Gerald trouble himself about her? No. “Are you free tomorrow? Should I call?” He asked.
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