“It is a secret mission,” she declared. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. Sheppard. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. “Yeah. It wouldn’t be you. She warmed to him fast, her anger was much harder to carry than the pleasant everyday neutrality of affection. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. "Why it is astonishing, certainly," remarked Kneebone, "to find any woman constant—especially to a girlish attachment; but such is the case.
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