"What of her?" exclaimed Jack, starting up. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. "Fly!" cried Jack; "escape if you can; don't mind me. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. . It had been her home for hundreds of years. Never mind, I’ve got plenty. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them.
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