‘Jacques?’ she called. ” “It is over for now,” he answered, “but I cannot bear to think that you are subject to this sort of thing. ” “What do you mean—by too late?” he demanded. He waited. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. .
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