She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. ” “You’re lucky to live in an age when you can do so. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. The Roof and the Window.
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