“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. I want to be a person by myself, and to pull my own strings. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort. He pressed the long shapely hand warmly in his. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. See paragraph 1.
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