He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. " "All right, Mr. . He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. I miss them so. Whenever ecstasy— any kind of ecstasy—filled her heart to bursting, these physical expressions eased the pressure. Ah!" he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon a small knob in the wall, "there's the spring!" He touched it, and the door flew open. He was heartily thankful for it.
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