In an ordinary way
Mary would have thought as little of it as another girl. She might
feel dislike to the man, but the affair would be too light for
resentment. With this man it was different. He certainly was not
justified in making the slightest expression of factitious
affection. He at any rate should have felt himself bound to abstain
from any touch of peculiar tenderness. She would not say a word.
She would not even look at him with angry eyes. But she twitched
both her hands away from him as she sprang to the ground. Then
there was a passage across the orchard,--not more than a hundred
yards, and after that a stile. At the stile she insisted on using
her own hand for the custody of her dress. She would not even touch
his outstretched arm. "You are very independent," he said.
"I have to be so."
"I cannot make you out, Mary. I wonder whether there is still
anything rankling in your bosom against me."
"Oh dear no. What should rankle with me?"
"What indeed;--unless you resent my--regard."
"I am not so rich in friends as to do that, Mr. Morton."
"I don't suppose there can be many people who have the same sort of
feeling for you that I have."
"There are not many who have known me so long, certainly."
"You have some friend, I know," he said.
"More than one I hope."
"Some special friend.
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