If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. Manning, I do not think I love you. It has become a part of the order of my life.
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