" There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. " Prudence shrugged. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled.
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