With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Doesn’t matter a bit to me. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough.
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