When he reached the happy ending, he waited. His hand flew across the paper. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. ’ He flushed. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. "What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me. ” “Two years ago,” she answered. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. Only au revoir. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. “Two days’ notice shall be sufficient on either side. A queer nut. It is better to face the truth.
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