If Mr. Afterwards she hunted up the article in question, and it seemed to her quite delightfully written and argued. He was no match for Brendon. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia.
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