’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. But she was disappointed. During this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls.
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