Unwillingly he drew a little nearer, and became one of the group of loiterers about the entrance. " "I'll bet she still smells to heaven with sour coconut. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. He went on. "They imagine their work is done. . ” “It is within yours—if anybody’s,” he answered. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. It is so ridiculous.
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