He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. But I mean to have them. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. ‘This is altogether insupportable!’ She dug a hand into the recesses of the petticoat of her riding habit and a moment later Gerald found himself once again confronting the barrel of her overlarge and tarnished pistol. And Pottiswick, of course. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. It never seems to enter their heads to try and amuse their menkind. “Well, I do.
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