” “I don’t care how we meet,” she said. Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. Mr. Well, after all, he seemed to be turning the subject. It was no use.
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