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Updated: April 30, 2025
"But you must mean something." He threw out his hands. "Are you aware that you've been flirting disgracefully with Lizzle Durning?" "I?" said Paul, clapping a hand to his shirt-front. "You." He smiled his sunny smile into the clear, direct eyes of his dearest lady all the more dear because of the premature white of her hair.
She was royally angry, poor Lizzle: told me I had no right to be alive when a better man than myself was dead. I agreed: Rendell was the better man, though he didn't behave well to me. He died better than he lived. Out there it didn't seem to matter much. He died in my arms." "Did you forgive your wife?" "I never lived with her again, if that's what you mean.
He was turning the note absently over in his fingers, looking gloomily enough at the parcel containing the lately-chosen shawl. "It's hard upon a poor man," said he, "as earns every farthing with the sweat of his brow. However, there's no help for it. You must take back your shawl, my man; Lizzle must go on with her cloak for a while.
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