“You doubted me?” She joked. Hadn’t they settled that already? “I want you as a friend,” he persisted, almost as if he disputed something. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Let me go, Sir. Now I’ll tell you what I propose. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf.
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