She must weigh her situation. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. You are afraid of kisses.
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