Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. They even talked about friendship. It is no good going into that. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. “I’ve been looking out for you,” he said. "But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance.
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