“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. He had got here at speed by that means. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. They all stay!” “And you yourself?” Brendon laughed. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire.
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