I'm thinking that the Wastrel was one day a celebrated professional; and the women were partly the cause of his fall. “It’s glorious good!” “Suppose now—look at this long snow-slope and then that blue deep beyond —do you see that round pool of color in the ice—a thousand feet or more below? Yes? Well, think—we’ve got to go but ten steps and lie down and put our arms about each other. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. Instead of which they walked sharply. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy.
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