Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. The thought allured him, and therein lay the danger. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. Spurlock knew exactly what he was doing, however: speculative mischief, to see how she would act. ‘You could not tell it,’ said Melusine, ‘unless you were as close as we. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse.
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