. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. " Something in the child's voice, something in her manner, warned the spinster that her well-meaning inquisitiveness had received a set-back and that it would be dangerous to press it forward again. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “I was born there. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. You tell me he didn't like the stuff. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. Besides, she had admitted her identity. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now.
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