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“Because I hate you!” She spat. ” “If you want anything,” he said, “or get into any trouble, wire me. And when you reflect how much at heart your poor mother, whose loss we must ever deplore, had our union, you will, I am persuaded, no longer refuse me. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Perhaps. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. ’ He added, as alarm spread over the lad’s face, ‘Don’t concern yourself.
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