The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. At first she could not tell what it was; but as her eyes became accustomed to the light, she recognized the old coat. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones.
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