. . ” Annabel pulled up her veil. A simple wooden monument was placed over the grave, but without any name or date. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. For yonder went the loneliest man in all God's unhappy world. Paintings sold off the walls. On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. ‘Come on, Hilary. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. ’ Baring his teeth in a smile of triumph that was every bit an animal snarl, and leaping up onto the seat of the pew he was in, he jumped hazardously to the next. She was chic, distinguished, unusual.
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