“I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. CHAPTER VII. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. I’m not such a bad sort. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. Get on with it, then. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her.
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