He's down in Patagonia somewhere. " "Cannot?" echoed Jack, a slight smile crossing his features. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. ’ ‘Indeed, I’m beginning to think so,’ he said ruefully. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. For all that, it is folly.
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