” She stopped abruptly, and turned about toward the front door. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. " And springing backwards, he darted suddenly through the door. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. Mr. .
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