Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. “Please forgive me, Lucy. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. Good words, without deeds, are rushes and reeds. "I will have no satisfaction but his life. He never felt any need to explain himself.
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