She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. I might add that in any case I should not touch Sir John’s.
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