But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. “It was perhaps my fault. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling.
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