“You’ve got to take the decent reasonable way. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. ’ ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. “There is a secret. But at the word “home” she turned again. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. I think you’re wrong. Nigel, you have not forgotten!” “No,” he said, with a little bitter smile. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading.
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