In her bedroom Kelly lit the last cigarette of the day and gave herself up to meditation. She was thinking how much she loved Henry and wishing, for her woman's instinct toldher that he felt the same for her as she did for him, that he could bring himself to adopt the forthright methods of the late Theodore Stickney. She had spoken to Jane of Theodore kissing her like a ton of bricks, and it was precisely thus that he would have liked Henry to kiss her. His failure to do so, she supposed, was due to his being English. An Englishman, she thought bitterly, would have to have a signed permit from a girl before he felt justified in kissing her.
(from The Purloined Paperweight, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)
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