Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here. If you choose to requite me by detaining me, you are at liberty to do so. ‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. Her tone was icy. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms.
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