“It’s unforgivable of me to call, Miss Stanley,” he said, shaking hands in a peculiar, high, fashionable manner; “but you know you said we might be friends. Mauled about!” She fell to rubbing her insulted lips savagely with the back of her hand. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. He was followed with equal celerity by Terence and the widow.
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