In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. “You think that this is all. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it.
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