Later, there will be fever, after I've got his heart pumping. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate.
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