” She grinned. "You will finish your education in the East and return. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Hope reared. “I cannot reason with you,” he said at last wearily. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. I love my husband.
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