America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked.
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