It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. ‘She wants me to marry her. "I cannot break my vow. " "Dear sister——" "I should die happy, if I could behold my child. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap.
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