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FORE: We're going to get married, but don't tell pa--"
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FORE:No, but we must try to be friends now.
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FORE:The familiar little leather-curtained wagon was just ahead of us, bearing the other three Harpers, the old negro driver and--to complete its overloading--his daughter, Charlotte's dark maid. Beside the wheels ambled and babbled Harry Helm. At the bridge he fell back to us and found us talking of Charlotte. Camille was telling me how well Charlotte knew the region south of us, and how her plan was to dine at mid-day with such a friend and to pass the night with such another; but the moment Harry came up she began to upbraid him in her mellowest flute-notes for not telling us that he had got his wound in saving--Naturally I dont want to be impertinent in inquiring into your affairs, Propert, he said. Dont think that. But if I can help, let me{46} know. Going, are you? Good-bye; dont forget to order me Beardsleys Morte dArthur.
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FORE:He was half disappointed, half pleased. But, wisely, he gave up the idea of conveying to her that there was anything more than business for him in her working among his books. If she understood that her handling them, her passing hours in his room, her preparing his catalogue was something so utterly different from what it would have been if any one else was doing it for him, she would have found the hint of that in what he had said. If she did notwell, it was exactly there that the disappointment came in. He pulled his chair a little nearer to the table again, where his work lay.
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