But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. “You have been very kind to me,” she said. Gerald stood quite still for a moment or two, listening intently. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. ‘You imbecile.
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