Then he sensed the trap. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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