It slid off flimsily. “I was sick of the make-believe. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. She looked around her. "You'll find him at St. I'm sure she'll let me go, though. By the time I had recovered myself she had gone. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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