“Do you want some of mine?” “Yes. He dashed against the screen door before she could catch him and made the veranda. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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