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Jon stretched out his own impulsively, and they shook hands, looking straight into each other’s eyes.
“You must be about through,” said Francis Wilmot. “Come on to my room; I’ve gotten a flask. I’ve given A
They went up. Jon sat in the only chair, Francis Wilmot on the bed.
“A
“I should simply love to.”
“That’s fine!”
They drank, talked a little, smoked.
“Good night,” said Jon, suddenly, “or I shall go to sleep here.”
They shook hands again, and Jon staggered to his room. He fell asleep at once.
They travelled next day, all three, through Columbia and Charleston, to the Wilmot’s place. It stood in the bend of a red river, with cotton fields around, and swampy ground where live oaks grew, melancholy, festooned with Florida moss. The old slave quarters, disused except as ke
Jon was happier than he had been since he landed in the New World three and a half years ago. In the mornings he sauntered with the dogs in the sunlight or tried to write poetry—for the two young Wilmots were busy. After the midday meal he rode with them or with A
Between A
“Do you want to play, Jon?”
“Yes,” said Jon, “let’s play. It’s the last time”; and he took his ukulele.
She sat down on the rug before the fire, and began to tune hers. Jon slipped down beside the spaniel and began to tune his. The spaniel got up and went away.
“What shall we sing?”
“I don’t want to sing, A
She didn’t look at him! She would not look at him! It was all up! What a fool he’d been!
A