"So, wanton, I have found you!" "Wanton! Why, you infernal liar!" cried Spurlock, striking at the arm. She crushed the letter in her hand. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. She repeated this breathlessly. "Take me, then," replied the widow. “Pellissier,” she repeated thoughtfully. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness.
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