She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. Then enter Mr. "I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth.
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