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 had said the same thing to him, just here, three or four years ago.

"You often understand before I say things, don't you, Martin? Isn't it curious? All sorts of woman's discoveries that I've made about this house were nothing new at all to you. Like my idea about a fitment cupboard for that corner of the landing. Fancy that having occurred to you!"

He did not answer. He had taken off his hat, and she watched the wind blowing through his fair hair, as soft and fine as a baby's. Little wrinkles were coming in the forehead that she thought so noble, and his face—well, one could not analyse it, but it was a lovely face. She pictured him swaying for forty minutes in the train, with his hand against the luggage-rack, in order to be with her now, and said, "Oh, Martin, Martin!"

"Let's come into the house."

"No, not into the house."

"Why not? It's cold, you're cold, little woman." He drew her arm through his and chafed her hand.

"Let's stay out," she begged. "It isn't