“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier,” he said, almost roughly, “to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. Out of an old family album: here was the very comparison that had eluded him. Man's fate is in his own hands.
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