He cherished her. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. He closed the door. ' So I go to Patagonia. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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