The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. On the morrow Spurlock (who was unaware that he had offered a prayer) let down the bars to his reserve. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. ‘But the major—’ ‘The major can say nothing at all. When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris.
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