He was an imaginative young man. A pretty piece. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. "Miss Thornhill's a charming girl. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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