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Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. He let go of the girl’s arm. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. Nice goings on. He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. I do not intend to be married, or to become engaged just at present. But here’s what is different this time.
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