"Oh, yes!—for always!" He took her hands and pressed them upon his thrumming heart; and in this attitude they remained for some time. Mild, you know, and boon. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. No; she'd never go back. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. There are way-stations—even terminals.
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