The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. I’m right again now. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. Strange, I shouldn't know him when he called on me.
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