Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. He shuddered. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. She refrained. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. ‘C’est ridicule. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself.
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