"I imagine I must have a hundred rolls—all the old fellows. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. All through that brief but measureless space of time during which wonder kept him silent, as fear did her, she cowered there, a limp helpless object. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. You will be with me. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion.
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