Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. You had better let me go again. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. MANNING,—I find it very difficult to answer your letter. ’ ‘Eh bien.
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