“Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. I am certainly no ghost. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. "Thanks," he said, holding out a thin white hand. But he only went home again to Paddington. She traced him by his scent. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. I’m not a lovesick boy.
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