But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. We have both tried hard to develop it—you and I —and we have failed. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. She opened the door to him herself. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Bottles and glasses usurped the place of dishes and plates. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. But let the horses be in readiness. For a time they walked in silence.
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