Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. Wood, contemptuously. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. I’ve got a streak of male. I could not love you else. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. Perhaps you will meet him someday. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world.
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