Upon which Mrs. But it would serve. ‘Who the devil is Leonardo?’ demanded Roding impatiently, asking the question that had leapt into the major’s mind. She wallowed for a time in the thought of Capes, unable to escape from his image and the idea of his presence in her life. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. But ship that girl east as soon as you can.
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