Her little white hand stole across the table. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Sheppard, faintly. "Where did you pick it up?" "I believe I told you; at Yale. Dare you?” “Do you mean NOW?” “At the end of the session. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Poor little one. So get up, and let's be off.
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