I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. “Very likely,” he answered. I don’t idealize you. "O, Lord!" ejaculated Wood. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. From long experience with both races he had acquired definitions, but none snugly applied to this girl. It was a different world. He patted the hand on his sleeve. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. I wasn’t. ‘And I don’t mind telling you it goes agin’ the grain with me to let you go free and all, missie.
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