The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived. “Yes, John. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. Manning think?” said her aunt. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad.
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