No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. The road which wound by Westbourne Green, gave him a full view of the hill of Hampstead with its church, its crest of houses, and its villas peeping from out the trees.
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