Her answer was not quite ready. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. You must have figured that out by now. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword.
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