She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. This year—I’ve got it badly. Tell her, that more than once, when about to commit some desperate offence, I have been restrained by her gentle image. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page.
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