” She said. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three
days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both
his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who
was always less active on days when he was not around. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not
let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and
directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same
leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that
memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. She did not start for the Imperial College. She pointed
hither and yon, smiled and shook her head. I am an
educated Chinese, and I resent the imputations against my race. Hastening to the spot where he had tied
his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for
he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware
Road. . “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!”
She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had
savored the words.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 21-07-2024 19:37:52