She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. " "Won't you take me?" "No; you must await my return here. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. But I liked the things you said here.
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