’ ‘But it was not your fault,’ protested Gosse, shocked. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. But those days are over—quite over.
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