Le Moyne took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was in the

kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection and understanding.

"Good-night, Christine," he said, and went into the hall and upstairs.

The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowed through

the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the ailanthus tree flung

ghostly shadows on the walls. There was a faint sweet odor of blossoms, so

soon to become rank and heavy.

Over the floor in a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper which

disappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest.

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