F. “How odd that I should almost spring into your arms just on my doorstep!” she remarked gaily. Wood. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. ‘Do please continue,’ Gerald begged, deceptively docile.
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