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He tried to make love to me. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. The fever came. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. I get my driver's license tomorrow.
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