So, only that morning, had he
imagined himself consulting the daisy oracle. "She loves me, she loves
me not." Absolutely he put the memory from him. Molly was speaking.
"People do matter. They make things so unpleasant. Not that I care as
much about them as I used to; but still, one has to be careful. People
are so prying, always wanting to know things," she glanced around
nervously, "but let's not talk about them. I don't understand things
yet. How did you find me, if you thought I was--dead?"
"Accident, if there be such a thing. I was driving down the road. I am
living in the town near here--in Coombe!"
"But you can't! I live in Coombe. It is my home. There isn't a Chedridge
in the place."
"My name is not Chedridge now. I took my uncle's name when I inherited
his money. I am called Henry Callandar."
"Callandar!" Her voice rose shrilly on the word. "And you are living in
Coombe? Why you are--you must be--Esther's Dr. Callandar!"
The man went deathly white, yet his enormous self-control, the fruit of
years, held him steady.
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