They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. I believed that our marriage was genuine. His literary instincts began to stir. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. "There's his knock. But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. She wished she had not stood up. But it was only six-thirty.
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