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'If you had written home,' replied the lady, 'there would
have been none of it. If you had even gone to Murrayfield
reasonably sober, you would never have slept there, and the
worst would not have happened. Besides, the whole thing
began years ago. You got into trouble, and when your father,
honest man, was disappointed, you took the pet, or got
afraid, and ran away from punishment. Well, you've had your
own way of it, John, and I don't suppose you like it.'
'
I sometimes fancy I'm not much better than a fool,' sighed
John.
'My dear John,' said she, 'not much!'
He looked at her, and his eye fell. A certain anger rose
within him; here was a Flora he disowned; she was hard; she
was of a set colour; a settled, mature, undecorative manner;
plain of speech, plain of habit - he had come near saying,
plain of face. And this changeling called herself by the
same name as the many-coloured, clinging maid of yore; she of
the frequent laughter, and the many sighs, and the kind,
stolen glances. And to make all worse, she took the upper
hand with him, which (as John well knew) was not the true
relation of the sexes. He steeled his heart against this
sick-nurse.
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