Only a son’s another story. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. “Poor old Alice!” Her brother Roddy came to her and demanded tea, and asked her to state a case. On the fifth day he had ventured speech with her. . She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love.
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