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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

Even you, who should have known me
better, were ready to believe the very worst."
"I've paid for it," Barrow pleaded. "You don't know how I've hated
myself for being such a cad. But it taught me a lesson--if you'll not
hold a grudge against me. I've wondered and worried about you,
disappearing the way you did. Where have you been, and how have you
been getting on? You surely look well." He bent an admiring glance on
her.
"Oh, I've been every place, and I can't complain about not getting on,"
she answered carelessly.
For the life of her, she could not help making comparisons between the
man beside her and another who she guessed would by now be bearing up
to the crest of the divide that overlooked the green and peaceful vista
of forest and lake, with the Babine Range lying purple beyond. She
wondered if Roaring Bill Wagstaff would ever, under any circumstances,
have looked on her with the scornful, angry distrust that Barrow had
once betrayed. And she could not conceive of Bill Wagstaff ever being
humble or penitent for anything he had done. Barrow's attitude was
that of a little boy who had broken some plaything in a fit of anger
and was now woefully trying to put the pieces together again.


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