Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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