Senior year started with a whimper. ‘You do not understand, Gérard. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. She was too late.
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