“You go home,” he said, at parting; “you go home. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. "Sir Cecil is no more. Besides," she added, blushing yet more deeply, "it isn't a proper one to talk upon. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him.
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