?” she asked. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. I don’t want to know. Back in the States young women did not offer to play the Good Samaritan to strange young fools whom Jawn D. Last night there had been no time.
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