" "What is it?" asked the poor woman. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. "I love her already. I do want them.
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