The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. ” “She has chances?” he said, helping her out.
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