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 ward so passionately, that Ambrose had sensed no obligation to comment. Now, however, she paused for an instant before she continued: The situation became so intolerable that I determined to put an end to it. I think, Mr. Deacon, it must have been you who gave me the courage to make my great decision.

Here, obvidusly, was offered abundant opportunity to express astonishment or gratitude or some kindred emotion, but Ambrose had found it entirely impossible to utter a word. His throat was dry, choked, almost as if it had been caked with sand. He had wondered, actually, if he could draw another breath.

If Wilhelmina Ford had been expecting a reply, she generously ignored its lack. Presently, she continued to explain to Ambrose that the reviews of his play had served to emphasize the high opinion she had already conceived of him after a perusal of his fiction. As for that, why else had she purchased the Saturday Evening Post each Thursday? When no new story of his had been included between its hebdomadal covers, she had consigned the periodical to the kitchen and the less limited taste of the cook.

You are not handsome, perhaps, she had assured him, penetrating his very soul with a long stare from