Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. ” She said. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. “Well?” she said. Nigel Ennison was he. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being.
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