A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. He had hired not one but two engineers to record the event, subsidized entirely out of his own meager pocket. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. But, as you perceive, I brought it away with me.
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