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The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. “You are absurd,” she declared. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. ‘I assure you it was mutual. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. Seeing Capes from day to day made a bright eventfulness that hampered her in the course she had resolved to follow. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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