Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Goopes, she was sure was always high-browed and slow and Socratic. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Between her and the fair, far prospect of freedom and self-development manoeuvred Mr. Lonesomeness isn't my worry.
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