“What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. It was nearly one o’clock; but there were lights still in all her windows. I had a hunch. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown.
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