The champagne was cold, and its subtle fumes played fantastic tricks

with Edna's memory that night.

Outside, away from the glow of the fire and the soft lamplight, the

night was chill and murky. The Doctor doubled his old-fashioned cloak

across his breast as he strode home through the darkness. He knew his

fellow-creatures better than most men; knew that inner life which so

seldom unfolds itself to unanointed eyes. He was sorry he had accepted

Pontellier's invitation. He was growing old, and beginning to need rest

and an imperturbed spirit. He did not want the secrets of other lives

thrust upon him.

"I hope it isn't Arobin," he muttered to himself as he walked. "I hope

to heaven it isn't Alcee Arobin."




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