"Did I thank you for your
kindness?" She smiled as she laid her hand gently upon his arm, to cross
a crowded street, and she looked up into his quiet face.
"Thank me? For what? On the contrary--I fancied that I had annoyed you."
"Perhaps I did not quite understand it all at first," she answered
thoughtfully. "It is hard for a woman like me to realise what it would
be to have a brother--or a sister, or any one belonging to me. I needed
to think of the idea. Do you know that I am quite alone in the world?"
The Wanderer had accepted her as he found her, strangely alone,
indeed, and strangely independent of the world, a beautiful, singularly
interesting woman, doing good, so far as he knew, in her own way,
separated from ordinary existence by some unusual circumstances, and
elevated above ordinary dangers by the strength and the pride of her own
character. And yet, indolent and indifferent as he had grown of late, he
was conscious of a vague curiosity in regard to her story. Keyork either
really knew nothing, or pretended to know nothing of her origin.
"I see that you are alone," said the Wanderer. "Have you always been
so?"
"Always. I have had an odd life. You could not understand it, if I told
you of it."
"And yet I have been lonely too--and I believe I was once unhappy,
though I cannot think of any reason for it."
"You have been lonely--yes. But yours was another loneliness more
limited, less fatal, more voluntary.
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