Mary Barton, by Elizabeth Gaskell

XI. Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed.

“O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only fault is loving thee?”

— BURNS.

“I can like of the wealth, I must confess,

Yet more I prize the man though moneyless:

I am not of their humour yet that can

For title or estate affect a man;

Or of myself one body deign to make

With him I loathe, for his possessions’ sake.”

— WITHER’S Fidelia.

Barton returned home after his encounter with Esther, uneasy and dissatisfied. He had said no more than he had been planning to say for years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the character in which he felt certain he should meet her. He believed she deserved it all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. Her look, as she asked for mercy, haunted him through his broken and disordered sleep; her form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in helplessness, would not be banished from his dreams. He sat up in bed to try and dispel the vision. Now, too late, his conscience smote him with harshness. It would have been all very well, he thought, to have said what he did, if he had added some kind words, at last. He wondered if his dead wife was conscious of that night’s occurrence; and he hoped not, for with her love for Esther he believed it would embitter heaven to have seen her so degraded and repulsed. For he now recalled her humility, her tacit acknowledgment of her lost character; and he began to marvel if there was power in the religion he had often heard of, to turn her from her ways. He felt that no earthly power that he knew of could do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea that religion might save her. Still, where to find her again? In the wilderness of a large town, where to meet with an individual of so little value or note to any?

And evening after evening he paced the same streets in which he had heard those footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic, discreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting Esther, and addressing her in a far different manner from what he had done before. But he returned, night after night, disappointed in his search, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall his angry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present self-reproach.

He often looked at Mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt, for the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of a similar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged his irritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about Mary’s conduct. Now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from all control, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, that she did not brook this change in her father’s behaviour very well. Just when she was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson’s desire of frequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning her hours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, etc. She could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she were not questioned. So she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging as a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. This did not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yet they dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, one principal reason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the other, was the believing that this conduct would insure that person’s happiness.

Her father now began to wish Mary was married. Then this terrible superstitious fear suggested by her likeness to Esther would be done away with. He felt that he could not resume the reins he had once slackened. But with a husband it would be different. If Jem Wilson would but marry her! With his character for steadiness and talent! But he was afraid Mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to the house. He would ask her.

“Mary, what’s come o’er thee and Jem Wilson? You were great friends at one time.”

“Oh, folk say he is going to be married to Molly Gibson, and of course courting takes up a deal o’ time,” answered Mary, as indifferently as she could.

“Thou’st played thy cards badly, then,” replied her father, in a surly tone. “At one time he were desperate fond o’ thee, or I’m much mistaken. Much fonder of thee than thou deservedst.”

“That’s as people think,” said Mary pertly, for she remembered that the very morning before she had met Mr. Carson, who had sighed, and swore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was the loveliest, sweetest, best, etc. And when she had seen him afterwards riding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not evidently pointed her out as in some way or other an object worthy of attention and interest, and then lingered behind his sister’s horse for a moment to kiss his hand repeatedly. So, as for Jem Wilson, she could whistle him down the wind.

But her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and he upbraided her with the loss of Jem Wilson till she had to bite her lips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words that would rise in her heart. At last her father left the house, and then she might give way to her passionate tears.

It so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought, had determined that day to “put his fortune to the touch, to win or lose all.” He was in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. It was true his mother and aunt must form part of the household: but such is not an uncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantages of previous friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an obstacle to matrimony. Both mother and aunt, he believed, would welcome Mary. And, oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea of that welcome implied.

He had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought of the coming event of the evening. He almost smiled at himself for his care in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit to Mary; as if one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so passionately a momentous thing. He believed he only delayed before his little looking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl. He would try not to think so much about the affair, and he thought the more.

Poor Jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee!

“Come in,” said Mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she sat sadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working over hours at some mourning.

Jem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever done before. Yet here was Mary all alone, just as he had hoped to find her. She did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing a minute or two he sat down near her.

“Is your father at home, Mary?” said he, by way of making an opening, for she seemed determined to keep silence, and went on stitching away.

“No, he’s gone to his Union, I suppose.” Another silence. It was no use waiting, thought Jem. The subject would never be led to by any talk he could think of in his anxious, fluttered state. He had better begin at once.

“Mary!” said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look up for an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenance what was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently she could hardly sit still. Yet one thing she was sure of; nothing he could say should make her have him. She would show them all WHO would be glad to have her. She was not yet calm after her father’s irritating speeches. Yet her eyes fell veiled before that passionate look fixed upon her.

“Dear Mary! (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly tell you in words.) It’s no new story I’m going to speak about. You must ha’ seen and known it long; for since we were boy and girl I ha’ loved you above father and mother and all; and all I’ve thought on by day and dreamt on by night has been something in which you’ve had a share. I’d no way of keeping you for long, and I scorned to try and tie you down; and I lived in terror lest some one else should take you to himself. But now, Mary, I’m foreman in th’ works, and, dear Mary! listen,” as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and turned away from him. He rose too, and came nearer, trying to take hold of her hand; but this she would not allow. She was bracing herself up to refuse him, for once and for all.

“And now, Mary, I’ve a home to offer you, and a heart as true as ever man had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be rich folk, I dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm can shield you from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. I cannot speak as I would like; my love won’t let itself be put in words. But, oh! darling, say you’ll believe me, and that you’ll be mine.”

She could not speak at once; her words would not come.

“Mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?” he whispered.

Now or never the effort must be made.

“No! it does not with me.” Her voice was calm, although she trembled from head to foot. “I will always be your friend, Jem, but I can never be your wife.”

“Not my wife?” said he mournfully. “O Mary, think awhile! you cannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. At least, I can never be content to be only your friend. Do think awhile! If you say No, you will make me hopeless, desperate. It’s no love of yesterday. It has made the very groundwork of all that people call good in me. I don’t know what I shall be if you won’t have me. And, Mary, think how glad your father would be! It may sound vain, but he’s told me more than once how much he should like to see us two married.”

Jem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary’s present mood it told against him more than anything; for it suggested the false and foolish idea that her father, in his evident anxiety to promote her marriage with Jem, had been speaking to him on the subject with some degree of solicitation.

“I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will never marry you.”

“And is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life, I may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!” His agitation rose and carried him into passion. “Mary, you’ll hear, maybe, of me as a drunkard, and maybe as a thief, and maybe as a murderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to blame me, for it’s your cruelty that will have made me what I feel I shall become. You won’t even say you’ll try and like me; will you, Mary?” said he, suddenly changing his tone from threatening despair to fond, passionate entreaty, as he took her hand and held it forcibly between both of his, while he tried to catch a glimpse of her averted face. She was silent, but it was from deep and violent emotion. He could not bear to wait; he would not hope, to be dashed away again; he rather in his bitterness of heart chose the certainty of despair, and before she could resolve what to answer, he flung away her hand and rushed out of the house.

“Jem! Jem!” cried she, with faint and choking voice. It was too late; he left street after street behind him with his almost winged speed, as he sought the fields, where he might give way unobserved to all the deep despair he felt.

It was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, and found Mary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across the dresser, her head hidden in her hands, and every part of her body shaking with the violence of her sobs. She could not have told at first (if you had asked her, and she could have commanded voice enough to answer) why she was in such agonized grief. It was too sudden for her to analyse, or think upon it. She only felt that by her own doing her life would be hereafter blank and dreary. By-and-bye her sorrow exhausted her body by its power, and she seemed to have no strength left for crying. She sat down; and now thoughts crowded on her mind. One little hour ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate in her own power. And yet, how long ago had she determined to say pretty much what she did, if the occasion ever offered.

It was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournful desponding communion between her former self, and her present self. Herself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. For we have every one of us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called life, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an entirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality of the bygone, and so change the aspect of the coming time that we look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. A few moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally different direction to our aims and energies.

To return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well know, to marry Mr. Carson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step. True; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her that she loved Jem above all persons or things. But Jem was a poor mechanic, with a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who had shown her pretty clearly that she did not desire her for a daughter-inlaw: while Mr. Carson was rich, and prosperous, and gay, and (she believed) would place her in all circumstances of ease and luxury, where want could never come. What were these hollow vanities to her, now she had discovered the passionate secret of her soul? She felt as if she almost hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles. She now saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be all gaieties and pomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she might share them with Jem; yes, with him she had harshly rejected so short a time ago. If he were poor, she loved him all the better. If his mother did think her unworthy of him, what was it but the truth? as she now owned with bitter penitence. She had hitherto been walking in grope-light towards a precipice; but in the clear revelation of that past hour she saw her danger, and turned away resolutely and for ever.

That was some comfort: I mean her clear perception of what she ought not to do; of what no luring temptation should ever again induce her to hearken to. How she could best undo the wrong she had done to Jem and herself by refusing his love was another anxious question. She wearied herself by proposing plans, and rejecting them.

She was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing the neighbouring church clock strike twelve. Her father she knew might be expected home any minute, and she was in no mood for a meeting with him. So she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own little bedroom, leaving him to let himself in.

She put out her candle, that her father might not see its light under the door; and sat down on her bed to think. But again, turning things over in her mind again and again, she could only determine at once to put an end to all further communication with Mr. Carson, in the most decided way she could. Maidenly modesty (and true love is ever modest) seemed to oppose every plan she could think of, for showing Jem how much she repented her decision against him, and how dearly she had now discovered that she loved him. She came to the unusual wisdom of resolving to do nothing, but strive to be patient, and improve circumstances as they might turn up. Surely, if Jem knew of her remaining unmarried, he would try his fortune again. He would never be content with one rejection; she believed she could not in his place. She had been very wrong, but now she would endeavour to do right, and have womanly patience, until he saw her changed and repentant mind in her natural actions. Even if she had to wait for years, it was no more than now it was easy to look forward to, as a penance for her giddy flirting on the one hand, and her cruel mistake concerning her feelings on the other. So anticipating a happy ending in the course of her love, however distant it might be, she fell asleep just as the earliest factory bells were ringing. She had sunk down in her clothes, and her sleep was unrefreshing. She wakened up shivery and chill in body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she could not at first rightly tell the cause of her depression.

She recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved to adhere to the determinations she had then formed. But patience seemed a far more difficult virtue this morning.

She hastened downstairs, and in her earnest, sad desire to do right, now took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfast for her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently irritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence, till at last her mild answers turned away wrath.

She loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at her daily work; yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for the encounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determined to give up having anything further to do with Mr. Carson, she considered the bond of intimacy broken between them.

But Sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carried into effect too easily. She soon became aware of the present state of Mary’s feelings, but she thought they merely arose from the changeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when Mary would thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and communications with her rich lover.

So, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance of Sally on Mary’s part, and when the former was made aware by Mr. Carson’s complaints that Mary was not keeping her appointments with him, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance of obtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk home, she resolved to compel Mary to what she called her own good.

She took no notice during the third day of Mary’s avoidance as they sat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of their intercourse. She put away her sewing early, and went home to her mother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. The other girls soon followed her example, and Mary, casting a rapid glance up and down the street, as she stood last on Miss Simmonds’ doorstep, darted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fast learning to dread. That night she was safe from any encounter on her road, and she arrived at home, which she found, as she expected, empty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would not miss. She sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, which panted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although she had walked so quickly. Then she arose, and taking off her bonnet, her eye caught the form of Sally Leadbitter passing the window with a lingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might, as if to ascertain if Mary were returned. In an instant she repassed and knocked at the house-door; but without awaiting an answer, she entered.

“Well, Mary, dear” (knowing well how little “dear” Mary considered her just then); “it’s so difficult to get any comfortable talk at Miss Simmonds’, I thought I’d just step up and see you at home.”

“I understood, from what you said, your mother was ailing, and that you wanted to be with her,” replied Mary, in no welcoming tone.

“Ay, but mother’s better now,” said the unabashed Sally. “Your father’s out, I suppose?” looking round as well as she could; for Mary made no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking a match, and lighting a candle.

“Yes, he’s out,” said Mary shortly, and busying herself at last about the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down.

“So much the better,” answered Sally; “for to tell you the truth, Mary, I’ve a friend at th’ end of the road, as is anxious to come and see you at home, since you’re grown so particular as not to like to speak to him in the street. He’ll be here directly.”

“O Sally, don’t let him,” said Mary, speaking at last heartily; and running to the door, she would have fastened it, but Sally held her hands, laughing meanwhile at her distress.

“Oh, please, Sally,” struggling, “dear Sally! don’t let him come here, the neighbours will so talk, and father’ll go mad if he hears; he’ll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I don’t love him — I never did. Oh, let me go,” as footsteps approached; and then, as they passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued, “Do, Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I don’t love him, and that I don’t want to have anything more to do with him. It was very wrong, I dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I’m very sorry, if I’ve led him to think too much of me; and I don’t want him to think any more. Will you tell him this, Sally? and I’ll do anything for you, if you will.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Sally, in a more relenting mood; “I’ll go back with you to where he’s waiting for us; or rather, I should say, where I told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till I seed if your father was at home; and if I didn’t come back in that time, he said he’d come here, and break the door open but he’d see you.”

“Oh, let us go, let us go,” said Mary, feeling that the interview must be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father might return at any minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was at the end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to turn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally, who came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary’s with a kind of decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing her mind and turning back. But this, under the circumstances, was quite different to Mary’s plan. She had wondered more than once if she must not have another interview with Mr. Carson; and had then determined, while she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one, to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given him false hopes. For, be it remembered, she had the innocence, or the ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable; and he, feeling that at any price he must have her, only that he would obtain her as cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her; while Sally Leadbitter laughed in her sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all end — whether Mary would gain her point of marriage, with her sly affectation of believing such to be Mr. Carson’s intention in courting her.

Not very far from the end of the street, into which the court where Mary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his hat a good deal slouched over his face, as if afraid of being recognised. He turned when he saw them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although they were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses.

The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the interview which was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with it had failed, there was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, which she could not evade without an absolute struggle.

At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden fence, put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the foot-pavement. Inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were standing by him; Mary now returning Sally’s detaining grasp with interest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness, willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally’s curiosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary’s hold.

With more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. Carson put his arm firmly round Mary’s waist, in spite of her indignant resistance.

“Nay, nay! you little witch! Now I have caught you, I shall keep you prisoner. Tell me now what has made you run away from me so fast these few days — tell me, you sweet little coquette!”

Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly —

“Mr. Carson! I want to speak to you for once and for all. Since I met you last Monday evening, I have made up my mind to have nothing more to do with you. I know I’ve been wrong in leading you to think I liked you; but I believe I didn’t rightly know my own mind; and I humbly beg your pardon, sir, if I’ve led you to think too much of me.”

For an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his aid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. He, young, agreeable, rich, handsome! No! she was only showing a little womanly fondness for coquetting.

“You’re a darling little rascal to go on in this way! ‘Humbly begging my pardon if you’ve made me think too much of you.’ As if you didn’t know I think of you from morning till night. But you want to be told it again and again, do you?”

“No, indeed, sir, I don’t. I would far liefer40 that you should say you would never think of me again, than that you should speak of me in this way. For, indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest than I am, when I say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you.”

40 Liefer; rather.

“Yet had I LEVRE unwist for sorrow die.”

— CHAUCER, Troilus and Creseide.

“Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. Ha, Mary, I’ve caught you, have I?” as she, puzzled by his perseverance in thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her meaning.

“I mean, sir,” she said sharply, “that I will never speak to you again, at any time, after to-night.”

“And what’s made this change, Mary?” said he, seriously enough now. “Have I done anything to offend you?” added he earnestly.

“No, sir,” she answered gently, but yet firmly. “I cannot tell you exactly why I’ve changed my mind; but I shall not alter it again; and, as I said before, I beg your pardon if I’ve done wrong by you. And now sir, if you please, good-night.”

“But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I done, Mary? Tell me. You must not go without telling me how I have vexed you. What would you have me do?”

“Nothing, sir, but” (in an agitated tone), “oh! let me go! You cannot change my mind; it’s quite made up. Oh, sir! why do you hold me so tight? If you WILL know why I won’t have anything more to do with you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I really cannot.”

This naive and candid avowal served her but little. He could not understand how it could be true. Some reason lurked behind. He was passionately in love. What should he do to tempt her? A thought struck him.

“Listen! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have heard me. I do love you dearly; and I won’t believe but what you love me a very little, just a very little. Well, if you don’t like to own it, never mind! I only want now to tell you how much I love you, by what I am ready to give up for you. You know (or perhaps you are not fully aware) how little my father and mother would like me to marry you. So angry would they be, and so much ridicule should I have to brave, that of course I have never thought of it till now. I thought we could be happy enough without marriage.” (Deep sank those words into Mary’s heart.) “But now, if you like, I’ll get a licence tomorrow morning — nay, to-night, and I’ll marry you in defiance of all the world, rather than give you up. In a year or two my father will forgive me, and meanwhile you shall have every luxury money can purchase, and every charm that love can devise to make your life happy. After all, my mother was but a factory girl.” (This was said to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this bold step.) “Now, Mary, you see how willing I am to — to sacrifice a good deal for you; I even offer you marriage, to satisfy your little ambitious heart; so now, won’t you say, you can love me a little, little bit?”

He pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she still resisted. Yes! though all she had pictured to herself for so many months in being the wife of Mr. Carson was now within her grasp, she resisted. His speech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding great relief. For she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, to think of the attachment she might have created; the deep feeling her flirting conduct might have called out. She had loaded herself with reproaches for the misery she might have caused. It was a relief to gather that the attachment was of that low despicable kind which can plan to seduce the object of its affection; that the feeling she had caused was shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, at the expense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved. She need not be penitent to such a plotter! that was the relief.

“I am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. You may think I am a fool; but I did think you meant to marry me all along; and yet, thinking so, I felt I could not love you. Still I felt sorry I had gone so far in keeping company with you. Now, sir, I tell you, if I had loved you before, I don’t think I should have loved you now you have told me you meant to ruin me; for that’s the plain English of not meaning to marry me till just this minute. I said I was sorry, and humbly begged your pardon; that was before I knew what you were. Now I scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a poor girl. Goodnight.”

And with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, she flew off like a bolt. They heard her flying footsteps echo down the quiet street. The next sound was Sally’s laugh, which grated on Mr. Carson’s ears, and keenly irritated him.

“And what do you find so amusing, Sally?” asked he.

“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your pardon, as Mary says, but I can’t help laughing to think how she’s outwitted us.” (She was going to have said, “outwitted you,” but changed the pronoun.)

“Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in this style?”

“No, I hadn’t, to be sure. But if you did think of marrying her, why (if I may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you had no thought of doing otherwise by her? That was what put her up at last!”

“Why, I had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not my object. I never dreamed she could have been so foolish as to have mistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! So I naturally wished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of — of myself, in short, I was willing to make for her sake; yet I don’t think she was aware of it after all. I believe I might have any lady in Manchester if I liked, and yet I was willing and ready to marry a poor dressmaker. Don’t you understand me now? and don’t you see what a sacrifice I was making to humour her? and all to no avail.”

Sally was silent, so he went on —

“My father would have forgiven any temporary connection, far sooner than my marrying one so far beneath me in rank.”

“I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl,” remarked Sally rather maliciously.

“Yes, yes! — but then my father was in much such a station; at any rate, there was not the disparity there is between Mary and me.”

Another pause.

“Then you mean to give her up, sir? She made no bones of saying she gave you up.”

“No; I do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may please to think. I am more in love with her than ever; even for this charming capricious ebullition of hers. She’ll come round, you may depend upon it. Women always do. They always have second thoughts, and find out that they are best in casting off a lover. Mind, I don’t say I shall offer her the same terms again.”

With a few more words of no importance, the allies parted.

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Last updated Friday, March 14, 2014 at 22:17