" "Hum!" exclaimed Jonathan. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. Mere hangers on. It was an impulse. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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