At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. Awkwardly, he closed his eyes and fumbled for a kiss. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger.
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