‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. But with returning breath came returning vociferations; and the carpenter, with a faint hope of lessening the clamour by change of scene, took up his lantern, opened the door, and walked out. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. John laughed even harder, his eyes misting over.
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