We're to be given a treat to-night. "I'm armed; you are not. It’s just hard to keep things from her. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. He was damned if he knew what to do. Like the Valades, I imagine.
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