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But—but how?’ ‘Can you write?’ Gerald asked, digging into one of his capacious pockets and bringing out a leather ring purse. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. His literary instincts began to stir. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. " "Impossible, dear Mrs.
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