For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Now I’d like the rest of your story. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. "You can render no further service to your poor mother. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe.
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