Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. ’ ‘She once more,’ came in disgust from the girl on the bed. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. My death, probably. At last—I told a story. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. I felt somehow I’d hurt you. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. With this person—who was no other than Mr. He could have her in the car but she preferred a more private setting.
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