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 Her voice went on, clear and a little high, resigned, impenetrably assured.

"But she would not. All his better side, all his serious side— She would miss it and ruin it all."

"Does he—" began Melville and repented of the temerity of his question.

"Yes?" she said.

"Does he—ask to be released?"

"No. He wants to come back to me."

"And you"

"He doesn't come."

"But do you—do you want him back?"

"How can I say, Mr. Melville? He does not say certainly even that he wants to come back."

My cousin Melville looked perplexed. He lived on the superficies of emotion, and these complexities in matters he had