People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. They were filthy after the burial. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. ‘For that I shall certainly not leave until you have told me every tiny detail. But all normal humans smelled wonderful to her, even dirty ones. You see, I’m selfish. ’ She waved towards a handy table to one side which was piled high with so many volumes, it looked in imminent danger of crashing to the floor.
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