CHAPTER XXVI. “You will have some tea?” she asked. He heard the woman talking again. "Oh, Rollo, there are so many things I don't know! But you love me, don't you?" Rollo wagged his stump violently and tried to lick her face. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. " "Only three days," reiterated the widow, "three short short days,—and then all is over.
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