The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry. Stanley.
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