She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman. These were yarns! As he was about to slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye: by Howard Spurlock. Me, I have a question for you first.
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