She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. ’ ‘What about this Leonardo fellow?’ Hilary asked, still frowning heavily. It was clear it must be to-morrow.
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