She moved a little nearer to him. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. “I wonder,” he said, “if women do know things by instinct? I have my doubts about feminine instinct. ” “It might become one,” he answered. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. ” “Mr. 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.
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