‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ” “Every one hasn’t the Gift. ” He looked at Lucy. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her.
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