"What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. It isn't as if he were stricken with typhoid or pneumonia or something like that. "I think I may trust him with you, Sir," added she, taking up the candle.
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