It never seems to enter their heads to try and amuse their menkind. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. I want to get away—to go to London. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. She walked back to the car. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. It’s not like we’re getting married.
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