She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. It slipped out—as did that “she”. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. But I don’t suppose you can understand. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. She could feel her face turning beet red. Get on with it, then. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. This unexpected interpolation might spoil the efficacy of all that had gone before. "So did I," answered Jack; "we had better move on.
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