So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. “What were you doing outside Miss Pellissier’s flat to-night? You were looking at her windows. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. I found a blue stone on the beach once. But when she turned her thoughts to Morningside Park she perceived the tangled skein of life was now to be further complicated by his romantic importunity.
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