The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend.
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