Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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