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England, My England by D. H. (David Herbert) Lawrence
page 114 of 268 (42%)

'Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?'

She only stared at him. He looked back at her.

'You've seen me before, you know,' he said, grinning slightly. 'Perhaps
you never noticed me. Oh, I'm quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you
know. What--?'

But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue eyes
at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with his
nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the quiet,
deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: 'I'm Gilbert, the filbert,
the colonel of the nuts.'

At last she found her voice:

'Where's Joe?'

'He thought you'd like a change: they say variety's the salt of
life--that's why I'm mostly in pickle.'

'Where is he?'

'Am I my brother's keeper? He's gone his own ways.'

'Where?'

'Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he'll be back for supper.'

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