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Page 342

PART III - CHAPTER VII
THE SCARP SLOPE

`If he will have me,' she added, quite as a playful afterthought.
Torn was a well - built fair man, smoothly, almost delicately tanned. There was something soldierly in his bearing, something self-conscious in the way he bent his head and pulled his moustache, something charming and fresh in the way he laughed at Emily's last preposterous speech.
'Why didn't you tell me?' I asked.
'Why didn't you ask me?' she retorted, arching her brows.
`Mr. Renshaw,' I said, `you have out-manoeuvred me all unawares, quite indecently.'
` I am very sorry,' he said, giving one more twist to his moustache, then breaking into a loud, short laugh at his joke.
Do you really feel cross?' said Emily to me, knitting her brows and smiling quaintly.
' I do!' I replied, with truthful emphasis.
She laughed, and laughed again, very much amused. 'It is such a joke,' she said. `To think you should feel cross, now, when it is-how long is it ago ?'
'I will not count up,' said I. -
`Are you not sorry for me?' I asked of Tom Renshaw. He looked at me with his young blue eyes, eyes so bright, so naively inquisitive, so winsomely meditative. He did, not know quite what to say, or how to take it.
`Very!' he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting his moustache again and looking down at his feet.
He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five years, was now farming his father's farm at Papplewick, where Emily was schoolmistress. He had been at home eighteen months. His father was an old man of seventy who had had his right hand chopped to bits in the chopping machine. So they told me. I liked Tom for his handsome bearing, and his fresh, winsome way. He was exceedingly manly: that is to say he did not dream of questioning or analysing anything. All that came his way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad. I-Ie did not imagine that anything could be other than just

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE `If he will have me,' she added, quite as a playful afterthought. Torn was a well - built fair man, smoothly, almost delicately tanned. There was something soldierly in his bearing, something self-conscious in what is way he bent his head and pulled his moustache, something charming and fresh in what is way he laughed at Emily's last preposterous speech. 'Why didn't you tell me?' I asked. 'Why didn't you ask me?' she retorted, arching her brows. `Mr. Renshaw,' I said, `you have out-manoeuvred me all unawares, quite indecently.' ` I am very sorry,' he said, giving one more twist to his moustache, then breaking into a loud, short laugh at his joke. Do you really feel cross?' said Emily to me, knitting her brows and smiling quaintly. ' I do!' I replied, with truthful emphasis. She laughed, and laughed again, very much amused. 'It is such a joke,' she said. `To think you should feel cross, now, when it is-how long is it ago ?' 'I will not count up,' said I. - `Are you not sorry for me?' I asked of Tom Renshaw. He looked at me with his young blue eyes, eyes so bright, so naively inquisitive, so winsomely meditative. He did, not know quite what to say, or how to take it. `Very!' he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting his moustache again and looking down at his feet. He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five years, was now farming his father's farm at Papplewick, where Emily was schoolmistress. He had been at home eighteen months. His father was an old man of seventy who had had his right hand chopped to bits in what is chopping machine. So they told me. I liked Tom for his handsome bearing, and his fresh, winsome way. He was exceedingly manly: that is to say he did not dream of questioning or analysing anything. All that came his way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad. I-Ie did not imagine that anything could be other than just where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The White Peacock (1906) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 342 where is strong PART III - CHAPTER VII what is SCARP SLOPE where is p align="justify" `If he will have me,' she added, quite as a playful afterthought. Torn was a well - built fair man, smoothly, almost delicately tanned. There was something soldierly in his bearing, something self-conscious in what is way he bent his head and pulled his moustache, something charming and fresh in what is way he laughed at Emily's last preposterous speech. 'Why didn't you tell me?' I asked. 'Why didn't you ask me?' she retorted, arching her brows. `Mr. Renshaw,' I said, `you have out-manoeuvred me all unawares, quite indecently.' ` I am very sorry,' he said, giving one more twist to his moustache, then breaking into a loud, short laugh at his joke. Do you really feel cross?' said Emily to me, knitting her brows and smiling quaintly. ' I do!' I replied, with truthful emphasis. She laughed, and laughed again, very much amused. 'It is such a joke,' she said. `To think you should feel cross, now, when it is-how long is it ago ?' 'I will not count up,' said I. - `Are you not sorry for me?' I asked of Tom Renshaw. He looked at me with his young blue eyes, eyes so bright, so naively inquisitive, so winsomely meditative. He did, not know quite what to say, or how to take it. `Very!' he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting his moustache again and looking down at his feet. He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five years, was now farming his father's farm at Papplewick, where Emily was schoolmistress. He had been at home eighteen months. His father was an old man of seventy who had had his right hand chopped to bits in what is chopping machine. So they told me. I liked Tom for his handsome bearing, and his fresh, winsome way. He was exceedingly manly: that is to say he did not dream of questioning or analysing anything. All that came his way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad. I-Ie did not imagine that anything could be other than just where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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