It was Wells who had shouldered him into the square ditch the day before because he would not swop his little snuff box for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. There was cold night air in the chapel and the marbles were the colour the sea was at night. "I've just begun a letter to your uncle," I said. Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy.
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