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    2021最新彩票平台Henry jumped up and walked over to the other table.


    She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: "Every one matters now for whom he cared," she said. "And he cared for you very much. Only yesterday when I saw[Pg 298] in the nursing-home he said how much he owed to you. He wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be."
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    Was this jealousy? Indignantly she would have denied it. Rather she would have said that it was because she did not think that he made a very good friend for her dear Henry. He was, in her eyes, a rather battered, grumpy, sulky, middle-aged man who was here married and there not married at all, distinctly a failure, immoral probably and certainly a cynic. None of these things would she mind for herself of course, but Henry was so much younger than she, so much more innocent, she happily fancied, about the wicked ways of the world. Westcott would spoil him, take the bloom off him, make him old[Pg 75] before his time—that is what she liked to tell him. And perhaps if they had not met on this special afternoon that little barrier would never have been leaped, but to-day they had so much to tell and to hear that restraint was soon impossible, and Henry himself had so romantic a glow in his eyes, and his very hair, that it made at once the whole meeting exceptional. This glow was indeed the very first thing that Millie noticed.


    1.Henry choked in his throat and could only stare back at her and try to smile.
    2.In the late afternoon of Wednesday August 4 Henry found himself standing in the pouring rain on the little wind-driven platform of Salting Marting, the station for Duncombe.
    3."There was nothing to forgive," said Millie. "You did what you thought was right."
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