Shari was snoring soundly. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. That is what I don't understand.
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