“I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. . So it would always be between herself and Manning. Of course, if at any time—see reason—alter your opinion. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail. " "I'm satisfied with your assurance," replied the carpenter, drily. He did not look up, so he did not know that in her other hand she held a glass of wine. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Manning, I do not really want to marry.
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