I sha'n't cry any more. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown of light material, and stood near the corner where the women's dresses had just been thrown down, quite out of sight of all the party, except Mrs. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side.
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