“Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. But he reckoned without his host. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. She was sore and overstrung, and it was intolerable to her that he should stand within three yards of her unsuspectingly, with an incalculably vast power over her happiness. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. Why should God give particular attention to such a prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly there was a trap somewhere. “A glass slipped from the table,” he explained.
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