The younger of the two, who was seated next to Jack, and seemed to monopolize his attention, could not be more than seventeen, though her person had all the maturity of twenty. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. The turning of the key startled her, but she did not see how she could make an objection. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. The doctor walked over to the bed, folded his arms across his chest and stared down into the unabashed eyes of his patient. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. . “You don’t want to go?” “No.
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