“Yes?” he said. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. “I don’t think I CAN do that,” she said. The ledge, along which he crawled, was about a foot wide. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. Do you want to kill us both? Stop the thing. "Hear me, Sir Rowland!" he cried. You cannot care for her. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket.
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