“It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. The terror faded from her eyes. I could not love you else. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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