He walked her home. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. Her father had smiles ready for her, he seemed to be truly happy with her for the first time since her infancy. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. Not so Gosse.
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