Kneebone invariably takes part with me, when any trifling misunderstanding arises between us. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. ‘This is not love, Marthe. She no more realizes what she has done than a child of eight. ‘What do you want with me? Why did you catch me?’ ‘You intrigue me,’ he told her frankly.
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