“If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. "Stay!" interposed Jonathan. "Oh, easily enough," rejoined the other. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright.
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