I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk.
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