There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. He hated himself a little for it. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. It is like a second honeymoon. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love.
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