One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. The modern parts of the book were inspired by my worldview of high school as pure, unadulterated Hell. But I'd a mind to try whether you really loved him as much as you pretended. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse.
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