" "I will be there," answered Trenchard, gloomily. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. “Women know these things by instinct,” she answered. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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