"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. ” “I’m curious. You represent to me an enigma, the solution of which has become the one desire of my life.
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