"You like Enton.
Make it your home."
She raised her eyebrows.
"How improper!" "Not necessarily," he answered. "Take me too."
She sat up in her chair and regarded him steadily.
"Am I to regard this," she asked, "as an offer of marriage?"
"Well, it sounds like it," he admitted.
"Dear me. You might have given me a little more notice," she said.
"Let me think for a moment, please."
Perhaps their thoughts travelled back in the same direction. He
remembered his cousin and his playfellow, the fairest and daintiest girl
he had ever seen, his best friend, his constant companion. He
remembered the days when she had first become something more to him, the
miseries of that time, his hopeless ineligibility--the separation. Then
the years of absence, the terrible branding years of his life, the
horrible pit, the time when night and day his only prayer had been the
prayer for death. The self-repression of years seemed to grow weaker and
weaker. He held out his hands. But she hesitated.
"Dear," she said, "you make me very happy. It is wonderful to think
this may come after all these years.
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