“I really owe him something of an apology. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. ’ ‘Good. ” “Cooped up!” he cried. The Night-Cellar. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. ” “Can’t we arrange something? Can’t we make a sort of treaty?” “He wouldn’t keep it. She still kicked herself for it. I can’t help it. Let us have no more of this humbug. “You’re a biologist, aren’t you?” He began to talk of his own impressions of biology as a commonplace magazine reader who had to get what he could from the monthly reviews, and was glad to meet with any information from nearer the fountainhead. He was the true optimist; and that he should proceed, serenely unconscious of reefs and storms, she accepted the double buffets.
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