Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. Well-balanced, sane, wasn’t I? You never heard anyone call me a madman? I’m pretty near being one now, and it’s her fault. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight.
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