And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. " The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. He was in love with her! She tried to grasp all the welter of values in the situation simultaneously, and draw some conclusion from their disorder. This moment couldn’t be better until the next moment comes. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. ” “I cannot do it!” he cried hoarsely.
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