She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. It is always on his person. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. "And someday let him care for me!" She sprang up, alarmed. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. ” She controlled a sob. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. There was a certain air of forced fortuity in his manner. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep.
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