“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. He brought another small loaf, and a can with which he replenished the pitcher, recommending Jack to be careful, as he would get nothing further till morning. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look.
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