She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He looked eager and flushed and troubled. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. It filled his thoughts for the rest of the day, and became an obsession. But are we any more free?” “Well?” “I mean we’ve long strings to tether us, but we are bound all the same. With this she now entered. And then scratched it out and wrote instead, “Gérard”.
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