” He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Old Lancashire families both. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. Her head rose. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening.
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