At last she was roused. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. He had heard this talk before. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. Jonathan gave utterance to a low whistle. . Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye.
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