“I don’t see, Mollie,” he remarked, taking a cigar from the box on the table as his sister and daughter rose, “why you and Vee shouldn’t discuss this little affair —whatever it is—without bothering me. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said. Do you see the time?” “I may come and see you?” Ennison asked, as his hand touched hers. “Why should it matter?” he said. Some one may observe us. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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