Mr. There would be no moon. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer.
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