He was even a little jealous of Sebastian. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. I arranged that he should. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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