In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. “Yes. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. But men of the Spurlock type, who walk straight, who are unobtrusive and intensely pale, they break swiftly and inexplicably. The elastic spirits of youth resumed their sway; and, before the coach stopped, his tears had ceased to flow. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
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