” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. Once before—but that had been different. We think the whole thing is straight and noble at bottom, and it isn’t. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. Wood,—"he'll never mend.
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