The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. “Sure, I guess so. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. He reached for her chin and lifted it up. He walked in her direction. It is no crime, none at all. I see. She raised this with the air of a conspirator unmasking, and displayed a tear-flushed face. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. I thought then perhaps you didn’t care, that you were like so many of them.
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