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His arms slipped around her waist as they were on the doorstep and he kissed her lips sweetly. I hope I may never come near her. ” “Think not,” that young man remarked laconically. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. And two other ladies. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage.
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