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Farnol, Jeffery, 1878-1952

"The Definite Object A Romance of New York"

"
"What do you mean?"
Once again their hands touched in the shadow, but this time his fingers
closed upon her hand, the hand that held the medicine bottle, drawing
her nearer in the dimness of that dingy landing.
"I mean," he answered, "that for every one of us there is a City of
Perhaps waiting to open its gates to our coming, and I am sure we shall
reach it sooner or later, all three of us--the Princess and you and
I--yes, even I, when I have done something worth while. And then,
Hermione, then--nothing shall keep me from--my heart's delight--nothing,
Hermione!" As he ended, she felt an arm about her in the dimness; an arm
fierce and strong that gripped and swept her close--then, as suddenly,
loosed her. For a breathless moment he stood with head bowed in seeming
humility, then, stooping, he crushed her hand, medicine bottle and all,
to lips that burned with anything but humility.
"Good night, dear Princess Nobody!" he said, and watched her turn away,
nor moved until the door had closed upon her. That night he smoked many
pipes, weaving him fancies of the beautiful City of Perhaps, and dreamed
dreams of what might be, and his eyes glowed bright and wide, and his
mouth grew alternately grim and tender.


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