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 door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “I am just back from Paris. No; she'd never go back. To-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind what to do. It throbs cruelly. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still.
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