But eventually Spurlock laughed. She felt sleepy and unusually irritable. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. He seemed to avoid meeting Anna’s eyes as much as possible. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. I want you to be my lover. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. For an instant, Melusine watched him go. He seemed too noisy. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity.
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