“Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Gerald went through all the papers in front of Gosse and that woman of his, one by one. Wood trembled. This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look. Much too young for you.
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