"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. “Maybe I should have stayed home. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head. She climbed slowly towards it, keeping close to the hedge side, fragrant with wild roses, and holding her skirts high above the dew-laden grass.
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