” “It is you,” he cried, “you, who are talking folly, when you speak of friendship between you and me. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Then go and fetch this daughter of yourn. I can't bear it. For I still love her mother.
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