Glancing down at the cups, Trescott mechanically counted them. There
were fifteen of them. "There, there," he said. "Don't cry, Grace.
Don't cry."
The wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon
the windows. Sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling
sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. As he
sat holding her head on his shoulder, Trescott found himself
occasionally trying to count the cups. There were fifteen of them.
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