“And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. Beauty has bloomed and faded. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad.
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