"But, I say, that girl is a queer one. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. ‘Certainly I can prove it. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. This—all this swamps them. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. They cleaned up the mess as best they could and she went home with him docilely. His tone was rough, almost threatening. ’ ‘Let’s. " She showed him the locket; and he studied the face.
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