Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying.
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