“The Widgetts,” she said. We LIKED each other well enough. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. She dropped the manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a button hung loose. ” “It might become one,” he answered.
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