Man's fate is in his own hands. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. "Well, I'm not far from the mark. Not at all. “It’s very late. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself.
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