As he hesitated, unable to make up his mind what to do for the best, a heavy rumbling on the cobbles penetrated his absorption. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. . It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. I was mean to him.
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