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Her husband, as she paused to look in at his door, greeted her: "Had a good time?" She could not answer. He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs. "Gooooo oooo oo d night," he said. That was all. Yet she was kinda mad. A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering with a brute beast.
He poohpoohed the idea that immodest dancing with frisky matrons or abandoned spinsters was necessary to restore the shell-shocked nerves of temporary captains, locally-ranked majors, or the recently-joined subaltern. He was far too busy for twaddly tea-fights and carping at hard-worked generals who were doing their best and a good best too.
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