It must be some days before you can arrange for her to make an identification. Finally she fell into reflection. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. She was in ill trim for walking, but somehow or other she made her way as far as the Champs Elysées, and sank down upon an empty seat. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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