’ ‘You always were an old sobersides, even as a boy,’ retorted the major, who was close on thirty now, yet as ripe for excitement as he had been on receiving his first commission at sixteen. ‘Monsieur Charvill thought perhaps that his daughter would find not a welcome. It was a pity people had to eat food. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. There is worse to come. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. He laid her on their old bed and kissed her from head to toe. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt.
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