"Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. “Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic.
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