"Steady, old top! What are you going to do?" "The damned scoundrel!" "I told you that child was opal. Probably he has something to say and can't say it, or he writes well about nothing. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. He stopped before her suddenly.
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