’ Mrs Prudence Sindlesham, a widow of several years’ standing, so she told Gerald, was a scarecrow of a female, long and lank of limb in a figure that had once been willowy. But though he made Blueskin and Kettleby his chief marks, he missed both. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. I told her it was the end. The farmer had become obsessed with her and asked her to marry. Gerald went through all the papers in front of Gosse and that woman of his, one by one. “You need have no further trouble.
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