“How shall I get my luggage out of the house?. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. He had become an extremely handsome man, his hair having darkened and his shoulders having realized their full size. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. “I refuse. Well, my friend found us out, and would give no quarter. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "Well, it's a good story.
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