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panther that has unaccountably become stock-still. She idly scrawls in the sand; and the word that she always writes is “ Isabel.” A man sits a few yards away. You can see that they are companions, even if no longer comrades. His face is dark and smooth, and almost inscrutable — but not quite. The two speak little together. The man also scratches on the sand with his cane. And the word that he writes is “Anchuria.” And then he looks out where the Mediterranean and the sky intermingle, with death in his gaze.
The Wilderness and Thou
SCENE — The Borders of a Gentleman's Estate in a Tropical Land. An old Indian, with a mahoganycoloured face, is trimming the grass on a grave by a mangrove swamp. Presently he rises to his feet and walks slowly toward a grove that is shaded by the gathering, brief twilight. In the edge of the grove stand a man who is stalwart, with a kind and courteous air, and a woman of a serene and clear-cut loveli
When the old Indian comes up to them the man drops money in his hand. The grave-tender, with the stolid pride of his race, takes it as his due, and goes his way. The two in the edge of the grove turn back along the dim pathway, and walk close, close — for, after all, what is the world at its best but a little round field of the moving pictures with two walking together in it?