He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. ’ His face changed, all the humour and tenderness leaving it in an instant. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. "Yes.
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