“There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. ‘And if not her, for she is dead, then me. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. And listen, John. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. ‘Gone!’ he said. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you.
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