" "The very idea is dreadful," whimpered Edgeworth Bess. ‘That’s just it. “There is my aunt,” she said. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. It was a dead calm. And there's your liver. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. They stopped talking, except to each other. Can I be of any assistance? I can assure you that it would give me very much pleasure. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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