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. ‘It is imbecile that you are. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. The flight. “I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. The weather harmonized with their feelings.
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