You won’t settle and I’m going mad. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles.
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