Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. “MY DEAR MISS PELLISSIER,— “To-morrow the six months will be up. ‘Odds were against it. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware.
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