For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. “I do not suppose he will be home till late. Ennison stood by her side. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness.
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