The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Do you see why I have hidden the terrible things from you? I chose you because you are my perfect mate. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. You are all that I am or hope to be—the celestial atom God put into me at the beginning. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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