And I get myself dirty. ” “But I love you. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. Gives you a right to hang on to the old man until he busts—practically. I have taken bullets and lived, and even a silver one wouldn’t do much. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father.
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