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She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect. “Promise. S. I’ll make any reasonable arrangement you like. He had a wild impulse to shout. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall.

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