The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us.
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