Death belongs to God, young man. I’ve had my time and lost my chances. He drew a little breath of relief. ‘Here she is. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. You see—I didn’t understand. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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