She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. ” “Better say six,” Mr. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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