"Not the sort of stories young ladies should read. It must be sent home this evening. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open.
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