For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. His eyes never left her face.
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