The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. As he balanced the photograph, a humorous twinkle came into his eyes. “Yes, I remember you now.
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