“You will have some tea?” she asked. "There won't be much left for you," he said. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. "How are you off there, Shoplatch?" inquired Kneebone. He got up. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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