We were two people with a craving. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. I do not love any one. Last time— you made me feel snubbed. He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips.
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