The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. “Mr. E. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. He looked distant, irritated. “You have the temperament,” he said. But I suppose as I’ll have to wait until you can hear me to tell you again.
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