“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. Come on. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. ‘She may well try to go back. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Blood and bone, body and spirit, she is selfish through and through. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. He'll mend, I hope.
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