“Well?” she said. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. Retracing his steps, he arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform of the starling. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece.
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