I couldn’t help the thought. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. She was so interested, and this was such a relief from the trudging anxiety of her search for work, that she went on for a whole week as if she was still living at home. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. There was a long silence between them. She had not even endorsed it. But she was only able to save a corner of the letter.
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