He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost.
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