At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. "Come out!" roared Quilt, looking into the aperture. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. Nigel! You have not forgotten. She thought of them as fools, but had been sorry to see them go.
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