Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. “You ARE a female thing at bottom,” he admitted. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. She felt herself getting into a corner.
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