There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert. He had not to wait long.
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