” His arms were around her. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Wood's astonishment and displeasure momentarily increased. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force.
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