I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Let us be gone. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. He seemed to be thinking hard. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. ‘And all to help me. She answered weakly, “I’m fine, John.
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