On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself. “You are absurd,” she declared.
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