We must wave our hands at the blue hills far away there and go back to London and work. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered. And you don’t know what led to our separation. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain.
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