John’s demeanor shifted. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. Can you lend me some stuff?” “You ARE a chap!” said Constance, and warmed only slowly from the idea of dissuasion to the idea of help. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically.
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