Little cared Tommy what became of the rest of his luggage so
long as that palpitating package was safe.
"And little you care," Grizel said, in a moment of sudden bitterness,
"whom you leave behind, so long as you take it with you."
He forgave her with a sad smile. She did not know, you see, that this
manuscript might be his last.
And it was the only bitter thing she said. Even when he looked very
sorry for her, she took advantage of his emotion to help him only.
"Don't be too sorry for me," she said calmly; "remember, rather, that
there is one episode in a woman's life to which she must always cling
in memory, whether it was a pride to her or a shame, and that it rests
with you to make mine proud or shameful."
In other words, he was to get rid of his wings. How she harped on
that!
He wanted to kiss her on the brow, but she would not have it. He was
about to do it, not to gratify any selfish desire, but of a beautiful
impulse that if anything happened she would have this to remember as
the last of him. But she drew back almost angrily. Positively, she was
putting it down to sentiment, and he forgave her even that.
But she kissed the manuscript. "Wish it luck," he had begged of her;
"you were always so fond of babies, and this is my baby.
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