Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. The loneliness of the place somewhat depressed her. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. “I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. " "By no means," rejoined Wood, hastily. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead.
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