"It is addressed to my mother," he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, "and by my father. He nodded. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. She twisted her fingers tightly. ‘Dare I suppose that to be of her making?’ Gerald flushed. ” She fumbled with her keys and opened the front door. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. That Capes should love her seemed beyond the compass of her imagination.
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