The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case. “You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling.
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