These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. And so Winifred understood him. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. There was a strained, eager expression on his face. “Flesh and flowers are all alike to me. I don’t know anyone.
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