” “It is odd that this man at the hospital should call himself Meysey Hill,” she remarked. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. We aren’t worth it. I’ve seen Brewis Charvill, by the by. Light flooded the place. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out.
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