CHAPTER XVIII The doctor reached for the key and studied it sombrely. Your life is like a funeral March. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. He was tender with her as he had not been in years. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of rare occurrence. No; she'd never go back.
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