But she made no answer. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. ’ He gave the gaping Pottiswick a shove, passing him on to his junior, who was waiting patiently by the kitchen door. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. He sat up in his chair again, the colour came back to his cheeks. As he anticipated, he was here comparatively screened from the fury of the wind; and when he gazed upon the roaring fall beneath him, visible through the darkness in a glistening sheet of foam, his heart overflowed with gratitude for his providential deliverance. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt.
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