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The note-passer lagged behind with her. " The Wastrel laughed. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. The thought of beauty became an obsession. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Wood, when he does return, I'd send him about his business. “I want to inquire,” said Ann Veronica. Tonight Lucy doled out outré physiological theories of boys and their overactive hormones.
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