\" Said John as he piled the papery remnants of their meal onto the tray. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him.
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