“Homely?” “Well, yeah, that’s what he said. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. His face was white. The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. The jolly part of it was that for the first time in her life so far as London was concerned, she was not going anywhere in particular; for the first time in her life it seemed to her she was taking London in. “No,” she said, under her breath, “you can’t face it. To be sure, he was attentive, respectful; but in his conduct there was none of that shameless camaraderie of a man who loved his woman and didn't care a hang if all the world knew it. ‘Parbleu, but what a person you make me! One who spies.
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