The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. The Widgett mental furniture was perhaps worn and shabby, but there it was before you, undisguised, fading visibly in an almost pitiless sunlight. " "'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?" "Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it. ” She stopped, and then suggested: “I wonder—I should love—if it was anything I said.
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