She struggled fiercely not to give way. Words were given with their original meaning, without their ramifications. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. "Get in wid ye, ye villin!" And, despite his resistance, Shotbolt was thrust into the chair, which was instantly fastened upon him. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle.
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