Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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