But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. ’ Gerald held out his hand, and she meekly gave the dagger up to him. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over.
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