I’ve tried to use my authority. Thames Darrell. One who—who—tres. His heart was beating, but faintly and slowly, with ominous intermissions. I want him as my friend. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat.
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