david pastrnak winter classic

"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

"We smuggled it through!" chanted the trio, ready to weep for virtuous joy. And then they clasped arms like the graces, about their aunt, and let her speak.

I found but one white figure under the dim veranda eaves. "Miss Camille?"

Her eyes flashed round upon me like stars themselves. "Not--Venus?" she whispered, snatched in her breath, bit her lip, and half averting her face, shot me through with both "twinklers" at once. Then she took a long look at the planets and suddenly exclaimed with a scandalized air--

"And was care for me your only motive in--"

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