“Nigel, Nigel,” she cried. If it were but the question of his reason for marrying her, the solution would have been simple. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls.
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