Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. Wood. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. His physical body was predictably paralyzed with shyness and fear of rejection, barely soothed with a series 51 of blatantly direct requests and compliments. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon.
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