He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. ‘Why, what have I said?’ ‘You said to me my name. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. I am wondering whether it would not be better to tell your husband everything. "What are you doing with him?" "It's a long story, Captain, and I've no breath to tell it,—unless you choose to release me," rejoined Quilt.
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