‘Courage,’ urged her spouse. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. I'm a poor nurse. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. Kneebone smiled assent. That was an admission all right. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. You fooled me this morning; but I overheard two old maids talking about you and the young man.
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