To-night she had a curious feeling that she stood upon the threshold of some change. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. “Okay. Mr. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. However, it don't signify. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. Good night.
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