He turned, expecting to see his wife. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. "I lost a very valuable one some time ago. Forgive my daring. A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. The funeral procession had now approached the grave, around which many of the congregation, who were deeply interested by the sad ceremonial, had gathered. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address. Of course, at home there would have been questions. " She departed reluctantly.
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