“I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. “Those were good. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream. Death belongs to God, young man. “I’ll get a towel. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. The eyes, too, though large and bright, and shaded by long lashes, seemed to betoken, as hazel eyes generally do in men, a faithless and uncertain disposition. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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