‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. A sarcastic smile seemed to play upon the chief-taker's lips; and abashed at his own irresolution, the lad went on. And Mother trusted him. I am too weak to aid you. ‘You do not believe me?’ ‘I do not.
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