‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. "Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. “You’re just a boy! You grow moody and spellbound, John, and the next moment you are ecstatic. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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