" "Never to return," remarked Jack, gloomily. Then he goes stony, and beats his way around the islands for another three months. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. " Half an hour later she laid aside the book. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically.
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