It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. “Odd!” she said. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought. There was no keeping Sheila from the truth, and it was better that anyone who lived under her roof knew it. The others hurried to the window. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. “Here’s something rather good,” he said, and with a start and an effort she took his place at the microscope, while he stood beside her and almost leaning over her. The latch came with a weak click. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged.
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