Surely he was imagining this picture. Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. It was no easy matter to determine her age, for, though she still retained a certain youthfulness of appearance, she had many marks in her countenance, usually indicating the decline of life, but which in her case were, no doubt, the result of constant and severe indisposition. She could hardly remember his face except for his brown hair, thick lips, and narrow dark eyes. “Why not?” He asked.
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