"Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. He turned. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. You’ve placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face.
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