“Thanks, so do you. She opened the door to him herself. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. She donned her gloves. ‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Drummond took up a cigarette and lit it. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. One of the shutters was a trifle damaged, letting in added light.
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