For the present the desire to fly was gone. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. Then a ride to London on horseback. A small voice greeted her, hissing. Wait a little; rest. Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face.
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