“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. We have played at a little mild lovemaking again. He had heard me sing—the fool thought himself in love with me. I wish that it worked.
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