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Glasgow, Ellen Anderson Gholson, 1873-1945

"The Miller Of Old Church"


He saw the rose of her cheek melting into the warm whiteness of her
throat, which was encircled by two deliciously infantile creases of
flesh. To look at her led almost inevitably to the desire to touch her.
"Are you going without a word to me, Blossom?"
"I don't know what to say--you never seem to believe me."
"You know well enough what I want you to say--but you're frozen all
through, that's what's the matter."
"Good-bye, Mr. Jonathan."
"At what hour to-morrow, Blossom?"
She shook her head, softly obstinate.
"I mustn't meet you again. If grandma--or any of the others found out
they would never forgive me--they are so stern and straight. I've gone
too far already, and besides---"
"Besides what?"
"You make me feel wicked and underhand."
"Do you mean that you can walk off like this and never see me again?"
Tears came to her eyes. "You oughtn't to put it like that!"
"But that's just what it means. Now, darling, do you think you can do
it?"
"I won't think--but I'll have to do it."
His nervous irritability became suddenly violent, and the muscles of his
face contracted as if from a spasm of physical pain.


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