The thing rankled in her mind night and day. Ennison better than I have ever told you,” she said slowly. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. It was only some hours after that these ambiguous elements evaporated and vanished and loathing came, and she really began to be thoroughly sick and ashamed of the whole disgraceful quarrel and scuffle. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. We all have to kow-tow to that.
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