‘Of course the fellow has doubtless stayed put to wait for you,’ retorted Hilary. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “No power on earth will persuade me we’re not two rather disreputable persons. We men are like children. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. Meysey Hill—never your wife. "By George!" he exclaimed.
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