“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. He tried again. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. Maggot, eyeing him from head to heel with evident satisfaction;—"a devilish pretty fellow!" "Upon my word, Poll," said Kneebone, becoming very red, "you might have a little more delicacy than to tell him so before my face. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo.
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