The aunt laughed. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. She caught at the idea. He stared at the woman depicted thereon for a long moment, awe in his head. Suddenly remembering Kimble, her heart thudded with excitement. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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