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On I went, chin on breast, heedless of all direction--now beneath

the shade of trees, now crossing grassy glades or rollingalleys of hop-vines; on and on,

skirting hedges, by haycocks looh wood and coppice, where branches

touched ers in the dark; on I

went, lost to all things but hts

were not of Life nor Death nor the world nor the spaces beyond

the world--but of il book with the broken cover, and of

hi ainst a

tree, stood there a great while Yet, when the treain, and with every footstep there rose a

voice within : "Why? Why? Why?"

Why should I, Peter Vibart, hale and well in body, healthy in

ue-spas, who had come I knew not whence,

accompanied by one whose presence, under such conditions, meant

infamy to any woman; why should I burn thus in a fever if she

chose to meet another while I was abroad? Was she not free to