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 suddenly struck her like a blow between the eyes. But she was not afraid. When all a woman’s thoughts, day and night for a year, have been given to one man, she is not afraid of him; no, not even if he be what Sybil for one moment feared that this man was. He read the fear in her eyes.

“No, I’m not mad,” he said. “Sybil, I’m very glad you came. Come to think of it, I’m very glad to see you. It is better than writing. I was just going to write out everything, as well as I could. I expect I should have sent it to you. You know I used to care for you more than I did for any one.”

Sybil’s hands gripped the arms of the windsor chair. Was he really—was it through her that he was

“Come out,” she said. “I hate this place; it stifles me. And you’ve lived here—worked here!”

“I’ve lived here for eleven months and three days,” he said. “Yes, come out.”

So they went out through the burning July sun, and Sybil found a sheltered spot between a larch and a laburnum.

“Now,” she said, throwing off her hat and