Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. Did he track her? She was unaware if he did. “I am developing ailments,” she said, meeting his questioning eyes. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. It was no marriage at all. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered.
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