“Forgive me,” he said. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava.
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