She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. Spurling, as if struck by a sudden idea. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. "That is easily explained. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. ” She looked at him with fluttering eyelids—sweetly grateful. ‘She’s little more than a schoolgirl, just out. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. The room was dark and dusty. F.
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