The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. Was there no echo anywhere in Miss Stanley’s pacified brain? Those empty rooms, if they were empty, were the equivalents of astoundingly decorated predecessors. Looking at this girl, a sense of failure swept over him. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts.
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