The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. .
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