I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. Then he sensed the trap. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. “Feel better. You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. He lost control of the machine. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly.
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