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“I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Always as black and bitter as gall. 3. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. “I wish you didn’t.
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