Yes, I can readily believe it. He returned, blue towel in hand. “Compromise—and kindness. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. That, I think, is manifest. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. Mischief bubbled up in her. Then you may have a bit of a chance. It was only a matter of time.
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