Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. He looked at her guiltily. That's the sort of fool your nephew is!" "Not even a good time!" said the aunt, whimsically, as she stuffed the bills into her reticule. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. They began to wrestle fiercely.
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