Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. I overheard them planning your assassination.
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