"Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips.
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