4. 58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. Now I do. “I’ll go,” she vowed to the night, “or I’ll die!” She made plans and estimated means and resources. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. I almost wish we hadn't come.
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