He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. The thought of beauty became an obsession. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. He nodded silently, too full for words. Have you not tired of sadness and pain?” 81 She thought she could hear tears in his voice but would not look at him. In the afternoon she had considered certain doubts very carefully, and decided on a more emphatic course of action. ” “I thought I was old enough,” she gasped, between laughter and crying.
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