They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. "Be it so," replied Jack. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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