In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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