“Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. Stanley coughed and faced toward the house. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. “I want to lay all my life at your feet. He drew her closer. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. . She propped a pillow against his padded headboard and sat herself into a stiff upright position, legs expertly crossed. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face.
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