" "I should like to satisfy myself on that score," rejoined Wild, drily. ” “Mr. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. “But your sister,” he said. " "As you please, Sir,—provided you don't let him off. But it would serve. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God. "There it is!" cried Sir James, eagerly. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song.
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