‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed.
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