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They pay a civil visit to your rooms, and you see nothing but dark plots and challenges to war." "War!" cried Ansell, crashing his fists together. "It's war, then!" "Oh, what a lot of tommy-rot," said Tilliard. "Can't a man and woman get engaged? My dear boy excuse me talking like this what on earth is it to do with us?"
"I do feel a fool. What must she think?" "Never mind, Tilliard. You've not been as big a fool as myself. At all events, you told her he must be horsewhipped." Tilliard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, and there was nastiness in Ansell. "What did you tell her?" he asked. "Nothing." "What do you think of it?" "I think: Damn those women." "Ah, yes.
A sparkling society tale, full of verve and pathos, would have been another thing, and the editor might have been convinced by it. "But what does he mean?" Rickie was saying. "What does he mean by life?" "I know what he means, but I can't exactly explain. You ought to see life, Rickie. I think he's right there. And Mr. Tilliard was right when he said one oughtn't to be academic."
"I do not like carved stones." "You are too particular," said Widdrington. "You are always expecting to meet living people. One never does. I am content with the Parthenon frieze." And he moved along a few yards of it, while Ansell followed, conscious only of its pathos. "There's Tilliard," he observed. "Shall we kill him?" "Please," said Widdrington, and as he spoke Tilliard joined them.
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