Loving was better than that. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Hang the wench! Roding was right. “Limp,” he answered. "I began to fear, from his having quitted the old place, that some misfortune must have befallen him. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. But she must not laugh.
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