Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Spurlock bent his head to the rail. He stood back and held her shoulders. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. ’ Gerald could not suppress a grin. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd.
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