And if I don’t, I go mad. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture.
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