’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. CHAPTER I. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. We are going to have this chap writing books one of these days. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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