” He passed his hand wearily over his forehead. “I am a fool,” he said. “I noticed him call her attention to us as we passed down the room,” he answered. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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