’ ‘That is what you thought of me. It feels like it. ’ ‘Don’t be stuffy, Hilary,’ admonished his betrothed. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. I can't concentrate on my work. ” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines.
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