What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. There was absolute quiet. Taber is the name.
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