58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal.
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