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“He is a sad blunderer. They stank, and she hated how they blocked the sunlight. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. . The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Luck. ’ ‘But you must want more. CHAPTER IV.
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