" "If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back window," replied Jonathan. “Would you wait for me?” Manning was silent for a space. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. Both carried packages of books and magazines. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. His expression altered.
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