The Bitchster strikes again. I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. Gosse sneered. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon.
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