” But now she doubted again of the quality of the armistice they had just made. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. ” The men at the reporter’s table lifted their eyebrows, smiled faintly, and leaned back to watch how she took her scolding. The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault. For the present the desire to fly was gone. I don’t believe in the faults. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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