He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. ” He left her where she was, crying in the doorway. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. "Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs.
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