The carpenter well knew from the obstacle which had interfered with his own progress, that the unknown could not have passed through the same lock as himself. “Perhaps,” he said, “I have been to blame. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. Ennison. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Come back with me to-night. That day Gerald had brought her to this excessively careful house, where she had felt very much alone and very unlike herself.
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