"
"I don't need yours anyway."
"By Jove, that's just whose, my pretty. You needn't think that because I
haven't made you love me, I couldn't."
"I doubt it very much--but you may think so if you choose."
"Suppose I were to dress in corduroy and run a grist mill."
Her laugh came readily.
"You're too fat!"
"Another thrust like that, and I'll gallop off and leave you."
His face was bent toward hers, and it was only the quick change in her
expression, and the restive start of her horse, that made him swerve
suddenly aside and glance at the blazed pine they were passing. Leaning
against the tree, with her arms resting on the bars, and her body
as still as if it were chiselled out of stone, Blossom Revercomb was
watching them over a row of tall tiger lilies. Her features were drawn
and pallid, as if from sharp physical pain, and a blight had spread over
her beauty, like the decay of a flower that feeds a canker at its heart.
With an exclamation of alarm, Molly turned her horse's head in the
direction of the pine, but with a hasty yet courteous gesture, Gay rode
quickly ahead of her, and leaning from his saddle spoke a few words in
an undertone.
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