And the love of her had made a man of him--he could not forget
that; had given to him just the strength that made it possible for
him to keep that resolute, grim silence now. In those two months
he had grown five years; he was more masculine, more virile. The
very set of his mouth was different; between the eye-brows the
cleft had deepened; his voice itself vibrated to a heavier note.
No, no; so long as he should live, he, man grown as he was, could
never forget this girl of nineteen who had come into his life so
quietly, so unexpectedly, who had influenced it so irresistibly
and so unmistakably for its betterment, and who had passed out of
it with the passing of the year.
For a few moments Condy had been absent-mindedly snapping the lid
of his cigarette case, while he thought; now he selected a
cigarette, returned the case to his pocket, and fumbled for a
match. But the little gun-metal case he carried was empty. Blix
rose and groped for a moment upon the mantel-shelf, then returned
and handed him a match, and stood over him while he scraped it
under the arm of the chair wherein he sat. Even when his
cigarette was lighted she still stood there, looking at him, the
fingers of her hands clasped in front of her, her hair, one side
of her cheek, her chin, and sweet, round neck outlined by the
faint blur of light that came from the open window. Then quietly
she said:
"Well, Condy?"
"Well, Blix?"
"Just 'well'?" she repeated.
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