To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. He said nothing. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome.
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