“I will tell you the truth. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. "Or the street," returned Jack: "mind my words, the prison's not built that can keep me. Above all, beware of Sir Rowland Trenchard. Did you bring any luggage?" "All I own. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. And I guessed you would attack if I startled you. She would not forgive me. Hoped you'd not be retaken. They were terrible, horrible people.
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