" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. “You must not think of me as one. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips.
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