Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. She heard the television blaring away. To-morrow they will all be contradicted. “Before I heard much Wagnerian music I heard enthusiastic descriptions of it from a mistress I didn’t like at school. I said I hadn’t been at the Royal Society soiree for four years, and got him to tell me about some of the fresh Mendelian work. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing.
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