She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant. I don’t care what divides us. If she delayed a day she would delay two days, if she delayed two days she would delay a week, and after a week things would be adjusted to submission forever.
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