She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love. He was painfully in earnest, too. She looked at her for a moment fixedly. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. She was obliged, as she explained continually to every one who cared to listen, to be so very particular. I'll forgive him if he does. She began to draw on her gloves thoughtfully. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. We were only—les autres.
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