He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. He stopped abruptly. "I've got something to say to you," continued the speaker, rather less harshly; "something to your advantage; so come out o' your hiding-place, and let's have some supper, for I'm infernally hungry. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him.
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