There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. You seemed, he thought, to have some grievance which you would not explain and which he thought must arise from a misunderstanding. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness. I would sooner see you in a ’bus again. E. She continued to fan herself.
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