For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Meantime, every preparation had been made outside for his departure. ‘Who has begun this but you?’ Gerald barely heard her. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. But the relief from the strain of her immediate necessities was immense. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question.
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