“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. “He says you are frigid, Madame. ‘I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. ’ The sharp eyes twinkled.
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