“I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. “I cannot keep silence any longer. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. “Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. He knew my name, and also that I had been living in Paris, and a man doesn’t risk claiming a girl for his wife, as a rule, for nothing.
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