He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. "What I do is for the best, and I can only hope she may have strength to bear the separation. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. .
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