Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary already of the way. I figure, finally, that the white curtain draping, in the fashion of those days, the head of Flora's little bed, shrouded, as I had assured myself long before, the perfection of childish rest. I should not for instance have been able to asseverate to my friend that I was certain--which was so much to the good--that _I_ at least had not betrayed myself. His name in that new life leaped into characters before his eyes and to it there followed a mental sensation of an undefined face or colour of a face.
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