Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat.
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