It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Montague Hill. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The blue jaws suggested courage and tenacity. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. Before she knew what had happened, Gosse turned suddenly, and vaulted one of the pews into the gap behind.
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