” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. You’ve got to adjust yourself to the people God has set about you. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. Loneliness. How the deuce, though, am I going to account for her? People will be asking questions when they see her; and if I tell the truth, they'll start to snubbing her. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. You need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. I don’t care.
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