" So saying, he threw himself into a chair. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. I didn’t go out of my way or anything. His literary instincts were reviving. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St.
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