I might have told you the truth. But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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