‘When you say it like this, certainly it appears absurd. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. Took and ran away when she got herself with child. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Anyone would be intrigued. I tried to jump, but he increased the speed. “Listen to me. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. “By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. A small voice greeted her, hissing. What of madame, his wife?’ ‘You know more of her than me,’ the girl said with a look of scorn.
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