It cuts. Certainly I never met him. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. “We have come too close together for me to believe it. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. For a long time neither spoke again. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. Then the long lashes sank demurely over them.
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