“You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. ‘She wormed it out of me, the little fiend. . . She stepped into his arms. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. It was dry, as if she had powdered it.
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