Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. "It is too late.
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