He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. He even thought he could detect the voice of Jonathan, urging and directing them. Nothing seemed to be amiss. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see.
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