“We may just as well have our talk afterwards,” she said, “and I need not keep poor Mr. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “I can’t endure it,” she said.
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