I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. He's going to ask you to Prom. And, anyhow, it doesn’t matter to us. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it.
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