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It is these eyes of mine you won, these eyes that hold me to
you, that these idiots seek. Instead, I must touch you, hear you,
and never see you again. I must come under that roof of rock and
stone and darkness, that horrible roof under which your
imaginations stoop . . . No; you would not have me do that?"
A disagreeable doubt had arisen in him. He stopped and left
the thing a question.
"
"
"
"
"
I wish," she said, "sometimes--" She paused.
Yes?" he said, a little apprehensively.
I wish sometimes--you would not talk like that."
Like what?"
I know it's pretty--it's your imagination. I love it, but now--"
He felt cold. "Now?" he said, faintly.
She sat quite still.
"You mean--you think--I should be better, better perhaps--"
He was realising things very swiftly. He felt anger perhaps,
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