” She put her wrists upon his shoulders, feeling him surge with the pride of his own masculinity as she touched him. "Not a syllable," replied Wild. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. She had seen a man’s head steal out for a moment and draw the curtains a little closer.
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