So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. There was now no honest way of warning Taber that the net had been drawn. “The real reason why I am out of place here,” she said, “is because I like men. ” He sidled toward her, but she recoiled from him, leaving him in possession of the hearth-rug.
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