She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Montague Hill is. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. The bolder members in the House left their places to go lobbyward, grinning.
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