He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. Oh, you must believe me. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all.
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