‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist.
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