"Remember--one week from to-day--a personal--in the STAR," she panted.
She literally tore herself from his arms, gathered up her grip, and was gone.
A week passed.

The quiet little woman at the Oceanview House was still as much a mystery to the other guests as when she arrived, travel-stained and worn with the repressed emotion of her sacrifice.
She had appeared to show no interest in anything, to take her meals mechanically, to stay most of the time in her room, never to enter into any of the recreations of the famous winter resort.
Only once a day did she betray the slightest concern about anything around her.

That was when the New York papers arrived.

Then she was always first at the news-stand, and the boy handed out to her, as a matter of habit, the STAR.

Yet no one ever saw her read it.