‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. All right, I’m coming. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. I must not let you go again. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. .
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