Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. He resumed his listening. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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