"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. “Steady on!” he cried. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding.
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