And then, as she answered nothing, “Seeing that we are lovers. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious.
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