She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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