Valentine
has gone away. I called on her to-day, and she has given up her
apartment. Do you happen to know where she is? She has left no
address."
"Gone away?" Clayton repeated. "Why, no. I hadn't heard of it."
There in the busy street he felt a strange sense of loneliness.
Always, although he did not see her, he felt her presence. She
walked the same streets. For the calling, if his extremity became
too great, he could hear her voice over the telephone. There was
always the hope, too, of meeting her. Not by design. She had
forbidden that. But some times perhaps God would be good to them
both, if they earned it, and they could touch hands for a moment.
But - gone!
"You are certain she left no address?"
"Quite certain. She has stored her furniture, I believe."
There was a sense of hurt, then, too. She had made this decision
without telling him. It seemed incredible. A dozen decisions a
day he made, and when they were vital there was always in his mind
the question as to whether she would approve or not.
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