So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. . This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. My heart fails me. "Constance is yet living.
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