If she could not marry him, she would not marry any one. She wrapped a leg around him. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. "You have," rejoined Jonathan, laying a forcible grasp on his shoulder. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. In his way he was critical. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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