She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “My first love was all blundering,” said Capes. I’m taking no chances. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. I was afraid of being talked about.
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