“It spreads like wildfire. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. His fingers closed upon her hand. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. There would be no moon. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living.
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