I needn't tell you to tread carefully. I’m sick of this town and I can’t wait to get out. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. The horse-soldiers wheeled round and cleared a path: the foot closed in upon the cart. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. Even in her own sorry skin-and-bones state of wraithlike pallor and gray under eye circles she was drawing unwanted attention from would-be admirers.
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