I don't know; I really don't know," she found herself repeating. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. These were the Master's body-guard. He was apt to play so many games, she was afraid she might have misunderstood. You have to marry me.
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