He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. He was always visualizing the Hand whenever he let his gaze rest upon the horizon. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. I cannot be intimate—’ stressing the word with a deep look ‘— with one I feel to be a stranger.
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