So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. And ever after it struck him that her backward smile as she disappeared was charged with some special significance. ‘Obsessed, that’s what you are. Wood; but they never come now.
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