“My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. He made the universe on those lines. She was watching him intently. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart.
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