These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. He had hurt her. "Poor creature!" ejaculated Wood. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. This made the eleventh. ” “Alcide’s songs are not atrocious,” Ennison remarked.
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