Smith. F. "I was just thinking of you Jack. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. But I will disappoint you. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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