He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. "If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her.
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