Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. Thames Darrell III. We have that gift. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. She doubted how she stood toward him and what the restrained gleam of his face might signify.
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