“You Mr. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. I can’t even make myself care. Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water. She is no longer mine; she is yours. Nice lady. I get the worst headaches.
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