On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. ” She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows—a look of whimsical incredulity. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish.
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