They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. A tarnish of constraint that had recently spread over her intercourse with Capes vanished again. Death belongs to God, young man. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label.
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