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Her face in the darkness, and about them the green gloom of the Square, were all that he knew of the time. Not far from them, like murals on the night, went the people, that little lighted stream of people, down the white steps and along the gray drives.
At first he could say nothing to her. He seized at her hand as he had seized upon it that night in Chicago, but then he remembered and let her hand fall; and at last he blurted out a consuming question:
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Lory asked surprisingly, and understood, and still more surprisingly replied:
“Bunchy! He’s gone to New York.”
This city’s name the Inger repeated stupidly, and as if it made no answer to anything.
“Just for a few days,” she explained, “before he goes home.”