I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. She read on and on, now thrilled by the swiftly moving drama, now enraptured by the tender passages of love. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. Stanley, to which the two ladies subordinated themselves intelligently. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. "He's not to blame," said Jack, rising.
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