It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. Like carpenter, like chips. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate.
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