I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. “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. “Women would—they DO have far more power than they think, as influences, as inspirations. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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