You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. "I love her already. Mr. ‘I can argue with him very well indeed. And I’m off to America, and if my steamer goes to the bottom of the Atlantic I’ll thank the Lord for it. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals.
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