"Good night, Master. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. She repeated this breathlessly. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. Ben had scarcely adjusted his oars, when the gleam of a lantern was seen moving towards the bank. ” “I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me.
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