‘Don’t be too sure,’ responded Major Gerald Alderley on a dry note. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. You did not learn that in a convent.
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