His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. “You certainly are. Tears sprang to her eyes. I'll tell you what. Then for a time she sat very still. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. There was a lot of that, John, a great deal of hunger. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared.
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