Her patience was waning fast. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. “Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. This roof is still open to you. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. ‘She won’t confide in you? Now, why?’ ‘Because that scoundrel Leonardo drummed it into her head that no man was to be trusted,’ Gerald announced viciously. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. " "I see.
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