White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. All right. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. I'm trying to make you see the worldly point of view, which always inclines toward the evil side of things. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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