"You poor child!" said Prudence. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard. ” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence.
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