“But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. It began as a joke. Your life is like a funeral March. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. “I have waited for this,” he said, and stood quite still, looking at her until the silence became oppressive. And more boys die than girls, so that the real disproportion among adults is even greater.
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