He sprung out of the driver’s side and ran to her door. Stonily he had disengaged himself. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. None this end. B. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. Apparently he did not see his recent companions. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life.
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