The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. He smiled inwardly.
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