“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. " "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. “You had only to ask——” “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. " And he tossed it carelessly into the bottom of the boat.
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