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There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. “Are you free tomorrow? Should I call?” He asked. Every one of those four stories would be accepted. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life.
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