This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. ’ He flushed. She dropped the locket into its sweet hiding place. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers.
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