He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. We shall have him on his return. “Have to take your turn,” he remarked laconically.
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