And
I'm--Freuded--if I see how or why you did."
"Don't myself--unless you call it pure accident" says Oliver, frankly.
"Well, that's it--women. Don't think I'm in love but the other thing pulls
pretty strong. And I want to get married all right, but what girls I know
and like best are in Peter's crowd and most of them own their own Rolls
Royces--and I won't be earning even a starvation wage for two, inside of
three or four years, I suppose. And as you can't get away from seeing and
talking to women unless you go and live in a cave--well, about once every
two weeks or oftener I'd like to chuck every lawbook I have out of the
window on the head of the nearest cop--go across again and get some sort of
a worthless job--I speak good enough French to do it if I wanted--and go to
hell like a gentleman without having to worry about it any longer. And I
won't do that because I'm through with it and the other thing is worth
while. So there you are."
"So you don't think you're in love--eh Monsieur Billett?" Oliver puts
irritatingly careful quotation marks around the verb. Ted twists a little.
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