’ ‘That is not your affair. " On quitting the Lodge, Wild repaired to his own habitation. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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