“I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. You have been burning paper, I see. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. She has been a dear. Abruptly he gripped her wrist. "It is," replied Sheppard.
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