The most notable thing about Time is that it is so purely relative. A large amount of reminiscence is, by common consent, conceded to the man; and it is not past belief that one may review an entire courtship while removing one's gloves. That is what Trysdale was doing, standing by a table in his bachelor apartments. On the table stood a singular-looking green plant in a red earthen jar. The plant was one of the species of cacti, and was provided with long, leaves that perpetually swayed with the slightest breeze with a peculiar beckoning motion. Trysdale's friend, the brother of the bride, stood at a sideboard complaining at being allowed to drink alone. Both men were in evening dress. White favors like stars upon their coats shone through the gloom of the apartment. As he slowly unbuttoned his gloves, there passed through Trysdale's mind a swift, scarifying retrospect of the last few hours. It seemed that in his nostrils was still the scent of the flowers that had been banked in
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