Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. I wanted to, that day in the Zoo.
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