She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. Marvel. The life with which he had endued these sheets of paper began to beckon imperiously. He leaned forward to better drink her in. They are not your flowers. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. Annabel, I was lying.
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