" "Hold your tongue, sirrah," rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, "and mind what I tell you. ” He left her where she was, crying in the doorway. You’re mine. Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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