He stooped to recover it, and his face was hidden. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. She turned on the lad with her, who was visibly relieved. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring.
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