What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. She sensed his acute frustration as he unzipped her raincoat while trying to kiss her. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. “Really, I do not know why I should have doubted it.
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