I keep it for my own drinking," he added in a lower tone. “I trust you altogether. “It’s precious unromantic. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. "Thanks.
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