“I have the right of the man who loves you,” he declared. "As yet," pursued the stranger, "Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son's expenditure. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. Every one else does.
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