" As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes. And all to find that picture of Mary Remenham. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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