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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

I
only got here yesterday. I pretty near passed up coming back at all.
I didn't see how I could stay, with everything to remind me of you.
Say, but it looked like a lonesome hole. I used to love this
place--but I didn't love it last night. It seemed about the most
cheerless and depressing spot I could have picked. I think I should
have ended up by touching a match to the whole business and hitting the
trail to some new country. I don't know. I'm not weak. But I don't
think I could have stayed here long."
They stood silent in the doorway for a long interval, Bill holding her
close to him, and she blissfully contented, careless and unthinking of
the future, so filled was she with joy of the present.
"Do you love me much, little person?" Bill asked, after a little.
She nodded vigorous assent.
"Why?" he desired to know.
"Oh, just because--because you're a man, I suppose," she returned
mischievously.
"The world's chuck-full of men," Bill observed.
"Surely," she looked up at him. "But they're not like you. Maybe it's
bad policy to start in flattering you, but there aren't many men of
your type, Billy-boy; big and strong and capable, and at the same time
kind and patient and able to understand things, things a woman can't
always put into words.


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