Ask your own conscience. ’ ‘What offer?’ she asked, suspicion rife in her voice. He worried me to marry him. You’re mine. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. As if we didn’t know! The practical trouble is our ages.
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