He hated himself a little for it. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. Or perhaps my father once. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image.
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