There is nothing but your pride which stands between us. “That’s it,” she said. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Her aunt was a long time before she answered.
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