I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. He won’t be in uniform. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death. "Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful. Under happier circumstances nothing would have given me more pleasure than to have offered you a home with your sister.
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