“You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. Late in July he finished the fourth story. I was—I was a corespondent. For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. There must be something we can do. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings.
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