SANCTUARY
had regained the writing-table and could lift a composed face to his. He came in hurriedly, yet with a kind of reluctance beneath his haste: again it was his father's step. She smiled, but looked away from him as he approached her; she seemed to be re-living her own past as one re-lives things in the distortion of fever.
"Are you off already?" she asked, glancing at the hat in his hand.
"Yes; I'm late as it is. I overslept myself." He paused and looked vaguely about the room. "Don't expect me till late—don't wait dinner for me."
She stirred impulsively. "Dick, you're overworking—you'll make yourself ill."
"Nonsense. I'm as fit as ever this morning. Don't be imagining things."
He dropped his habitual kiss on her forehead, and turned to go. On the threshold he paused, and she felt that something in him sought her and then drew back.
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