Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. It’s these damned novels. It needs cultivating, I think. ” She refused. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind.
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