Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. " Half an hour later she laid aside the book. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses.
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