“You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. To write under a pseudonym!—to be forced to disown his children! He could not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these tales prove successful. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess.
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