"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. He called a waiter. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. “I got your note just in time,” he remarked. “We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning.
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