"Georgie"
"Did you tell her the truth?" I had little hope that he had had sufficient good feeling for this.
"I did," said he with quiet dignity.
"Thank goodness!" I gasped with relief. "And what did Anne say?"
"She said it made no difference to her feelings."
"May I ask what her feelings were?"
Muggeridge went on. "It was an awful shock to me, and I have to avoid shocks. You did the worst day's work of your life when you threw me across her pathway. It 's a queer thing, Martin, but ever since she refused me she has seemed every hour to grow more desirable and indispensable to my comfort—"
"I can quite believe that," said I earnestly. "But I wonder why she refused you, if your heart made no difference." For I still felt that Anne's only eye was for the main chance.
Muggeridge, once more volcanic, glared and sputtered at me.
"Curse it!" said he. "You know, and
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