It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. " "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. ‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. "Yon's a dear man," said McClintock. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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