And she kept the door open--even to-night, though the sleet and fine
snow swept in upon her bare throat and arms, and her brown hair was
strewn with tiny white stars. His heart leaped as he turned and saw
that she was there, waving her hand to him, as if she did not know
that the storm touched her. When he had gone on, Mary did as she
always did--she went into an unlit room across the hall from that
in which they had spent the evening, and, looking from the window,
watched him until he was out of sight. The storm made that difficult
to-night, but she caught a glimpse of him under the street-lamp that
stood between the two houses, and saw that he turned to look back
again. Then, and not before, she looked at the upper windows of
Roscoe's house across the street. They were dark. Mary waited, but
after a little while she closed the front door and returned to her
window. A moment later two of the upper windows of Roscoe's house
flashed into light and a hand lowered the shade of one of them. Mary
felt the cold then--it was the third night she had seen those windows
lighted and the shade lowered, just after Bibbs had gone.
But Bibbs had no glance to spare for Roscoe's windows.
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