“Glaciers?” she said. She could even think of what had happened. ‘Well she does,’ insisted Miss Froxfield impenitently, and turned to Gerald. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. . She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word.
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