“You are talking like a boy. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. You're in luck to-night, widow.
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