” He stroked her hand gently. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. I cannot live without you, Anna. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. His first wife. Every one of those four stories would be accepted. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt.
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