[ourproject-public] smiled on Gladys Todd as plotting agains

[Bodrey Helland]

 again, but I stayed them. I knew that it was futile to

speak, that my voice was falling on dulled ears, but what else could I
do to stir him to fight for life? "I'll tell them--we will tell them
together," I cried. "We will go home
to Penelope, you and I, and they shall know how you fought. And they
will be proud of you, Professor; I know they will. And how glad they
will be to see you--how glad Penelope will be! Can't you hear me?" I
looked up, straining my ears for
the sound of hoofs, but the road was as quiet as any country lane before
dawn. I leaned
over the dark form and listened, and I knew that his march
was ended. CHAPTER XXVI Through what quiet lanes
of trivial circumstance do we move toward the momentous events of our
lives? We go our way, whistling thoughtlessly; we turn a corner and
stand face to face with the all-important. In my boyhood I went fishing
and tumbled into a mountain stream; I overheard Boller of '89 speaking
to Gladys Todd; I walked the Avenue at half past three in the afternoon
and met Penelope Blight. How finely spun is the thread which holds
together my story!

A firmer foothold
on the bank, an ear less quick to catch an undertone, a moment's delay
before setting out on my daily airing,
and there might have been no story to tell you; the valley
might have been all the world I know and the wall of mountains my mind's
horizon. Then I come to

the matter of Philip Bennett's motor. It was always breaking down. The
delays that it caused
as we journeyed north from
Naples were annoying, but at
the time these were trivial events, as we usually found
a comfortable inn
where we could wait while Bennett's man lay in the dust and peered up
into the vitals of the machine. It was an adventurous thing to trust
one's self t
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