'"I've been waiting for you for years," said Bertie Wilson in a soft, low, impressive voice.
"Fancy! How patient of you! - How did you know it was me?"
"Oh, instantaneous-sympathy, I suppose."
"On your side, do you mean? I should call it telepathy, or perhaps - conceit."'
from The Twelfth Hour by Ada Leverson (Chapter VII)
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