Firstly, she did not intend to marry at all, and particularly she did not mean to marry Mr. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought.
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