We men are like children. ” 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. The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. .
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