” She assented gently. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty.
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