The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Entering the Red Room, he crept through the hole in the wall, descended the chimney, and arrived once more in his old place of captivity. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
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