But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. But I don’t wish to hear that abomination on her lips again. Kneebone in a conciliatory tone. For such of us as pretend to be wise—and we are but fools in a lesser degree—we know that humanity moves onward only by the impellant of fine dreams.
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