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If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. "I tell you what, Mr. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. Think! Had you not better hurry back before Sir John discovers? You are his wife right enough. “And yet I wonder whether the world ever held such another enigma in her sex. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer.
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