He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. ” She smiled faintly. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. The door to the library burst open. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. Before that came your father didn’t even know you were gone.
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