No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. "I must tell you," she was saying. ‘Assuming she can prove her identity, does Remenham House belong to her?’ Mrs Sindlesham shifted her shoulders. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. "Here's a cross-bite. Gerald lost his head. Pay fools with promises. She comprehends what we're about. Be honest, and you will be happy.
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