He had frivoled with half a dozen trained nurses in as
many different hospitals, and had even had a sentimental round with a
pretty young stewardess on the transport coming home.
But this affair had been quite different. Instead of wading about in the
shallows of love, he had tumbled in head first, and found himself beyond
his depth and out of sight of land. It was a case of sink or swim, and
Quin was determined not to sink if he could help himself.
The fact that Eleanor Bartlett was not of his world, that she apparently
never gave him a second thought, that he had less than nothing on which
to build his hopes, only made him take a deeper breath and a longer
stroke.
The first gleam of encouragement he had received was that Sunday in the
country, when for the fraction of a second she had let him hold her hand.
Since then he had written her five letters and received but one brief
note in reply. Her silence, however, did not depress him. She had told
him she hated to write letters, a sentiment he fully shared. Only in this
case he could not help himself. The moment anything of interest happened,
he was seized with an uncontrollable impulse to tell Eleanor.
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