It was empty. Smith, placing his hand on his breast. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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