Poor soul! she nearly died when she heard he had robbed his master; and it might have been well if she had done so, for she never afterwards recovered her reason. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. ‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary.
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