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. The gong will go at seven-thirty. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. Kneebone's. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted.
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