There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She had set out to get a beautiful life, a free, untrammelled life, self-development, without counting the cost either for herself or others. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe. So far the boy's mind was clear. So she built a shrine. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. "That is very kind of you, but I am on my way to America.
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