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His gaze drawn, Gerald watched him dip to pick up a crushed square of white linen and a starched object that resembled a helmet. To vault over the pews was the work of a moment; and having gained the entry leading to the Red Room he passed through the first door; his progress being only impeded by the pile of broken stones, which he himself had raised. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. The mode of destruction makes no difference.
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