CHAPTER XIX. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. Mr. ‘I should have thought it was obvious. Remember what the conjuror said. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. His orgasm was quick, spasmodic.
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