The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. "My own father!" Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived would ever be recurring. After all, they’re history in the making. I’ve been thinking, you know—I’m not sure that primarily the perception of beauty isn’t just intensity of feeling free from pain; intensity of perception without any tissue destruction. Retribution has a queer way of acting sometimes.
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