. ” Sir John’s head bent lower and lower. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. ‘Come on. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son.
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