Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. “I will tell you something if you like.
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