Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. All at once it came to him what a fool he was to worry over this phase which was wholly suppositional. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. She could feel her face turning beet red. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament.
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