You will, Simon, won't
you? I know you will."
She quivered like an optimistic Cassandra.
"My dear Lola," said I.
I was touched. I took her hand and raised it to my lips, whereat she
flushed like a girl.
"Did you come here to tell me all this?"
"No," she replied simply. "It came all of a sudden, as I was standing
here. I've often wanted to say it. I'm glad I have."
She threw back her head and regarded me a moment with a strange, proud
smile; then turned and walked slowly away, her head brushing the long
scarlet clusters of the pepper trees.
CHAPTER XVII
The other day, while looking through a limbo of a drawer wherein have
been cast from time to time a medley of maimed, half-soiled, abortive
things, too unfitted for the paradise of publication, and too good (so
my vanity will have it) for the damnation of the waste-paper basket,
I came across, at the very bottom, the manuscript of the preceding
autobiographical narrative, the last words of which I wrote at Mustapha
Superieur three years ago.
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