Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. “You’re very nice, both of you,” she said gently. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. He contrasted with Russell, whose intellectual methods were, so to speak, sceptically dogmatic. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. She distinctly shivered as he forced her to look at him.
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