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LARE, restless, went out into the dusk when evening drew on, she who had won him having retired to her chamber.

The night was as sultry as the day. There was no coolness after dark unless on the grass. Roads, garden-paths, the house fronts, the barton walls were warm as hearths, and reflected the noontide temperature into the noctambulist’s face.

He sat on the east gate of the dairy-yard, and knew not what to think of himself. Feeling had indeed smothered judgment that day.

Since the sudden embrace, three hours before, the twain had kept apart. She seemed fevered, almost alarmed, at what had occurred, while the novelty, unpremeditation, mastery of circumstance