And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. Too much, perhaps. But if she smiled at all it was with her eyes. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. “That thing’s going on,” she told herself.
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