’ ‘You’re incorrigible,’ scolded Hilary, beginning to follow. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. I did not know what God had in mind then. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Even our coarseness.
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