She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. I can smell you. He had been hard since they had taken their clothes off. The latter began to heave himself up from the sand.
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