He carries with him something that will mark him anywhere—the girl. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. CHAPTER XIV.
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