You can have no shecrets from me. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. He would come swiftly to her aid, she knew it. "Here," repeated her brother. CHAPTER XIX.
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