He was a fool. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. ‘Small wonder in a way that he found hisself consolation elsewhere. “I thought you weren’t keeping up to the mark. Take the one that struck him at this moment. She was by his side. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them.
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