But I don’t want to. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. I was—I was a corespondent. Earles was absolutely indifferent. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness.
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