That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. At last—I told a story. Earles regarded it approvingly. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. “Forty guineas a week. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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