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Updated: May 24, 2025
She wanted the little daily assurance of her supremacy in the man's feelings, the constant touch of love, half accidental half contrived, the passing glance of the eye telling perhaps of some little joke understood only between them two rather than of love, the softness of an occasional kiss given here and there when chance might bring them together, some half-pretended interest in her little doings, a nod, a wink, a shake of the head, or even a pout.
His work was hard and not always pleasant, but he knew, with all his half-pretended grumbling, that it would not be wise to rely on his pen for a livelihood.
But when she held up her glowing, sparkling face for his good-night kiss, he once more parted the curls and kissed her on her forehead, whereat she pouted a little, saying, with half-pretended displeasure, "Papa didn't kiss my forehead: he kissed me right."
She pronounced the name slowly, syllable by syllable, as though English proper names were difficult to her. He laughed. "Whoever he may be. I am known as Kingozi hereabouts." "You are not Cul-bert-son?" "I am anything it pleases you to have me. And who are you?" She had become the spoiled darling, pouting at him in half-pretended vexation. "You are playing with me.
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