The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. Surely he was imagining this picture. I’m not a lovesick boy. ’ Then he bowed, raising his hat in salute and, crossing to the coach, spoke briefly to its driver and leapt into it without looking back. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. I’m not a psycho. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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