Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. There is no further hope. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. “When did you start?” She said between puffs.
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