Michelle looked at her pathetically. "The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. Sorry to be so nosy. We have met before. Besides, I do not want a price on my head. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. “Oh, Lord!” she said, discovering what she was up to, and dropped lightly from the fence upon the turf and went on her way toward the crest.
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