He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. Stanley, at the door.
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