Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. And that’s why I’m at your service. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me.
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