Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. Much to her annoyance, therefore, Winifred was left alone with the woollendraper, who following up a maxim of his own, "that nothing was gained by too much bashfulness," determined to profit by the opportunity. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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