“Mike, what’s going on?” She sat up, groggily rubbing her eyes. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. He thought her only an orphan in search of her English relatives. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. Not about girls that I date. You had better go to bed.
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