. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. Again he rushed. ’ Gerald grinned. The chair was torture. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. ’ ‘Only because you did not tell me entirely the story? That is silly.
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