She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. I know that in my heart I would take whatever he gave. Such an obvious ruse, but the boys and girls would defend their pride to the bitter end, the facade of study groups during rutting season. She felt herself getting into a corner. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. "What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me. Was he pleased?” “Calmly! He said—you won’t mind my telling you?” “Not a bit.
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