She was surprised to find how stored her mind was with impressions and memories of him, how vividly she remembered his gestures and little things that he had said. The Night-Cellar. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. "Where are you going?" she asked. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. Wood, in equal trepidation. Had you died, I should have fully obeyed the instructions on that envelope. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved.
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