Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. “You will be so late. ‘Now then, missie. Quite ordinary. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. She could not apply it in this instance because she was not sure the application would be correct. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony.
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