The lad hesitated. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. Curiously enough nothing will persuade him that she is not ‘Alcide. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. ‘We was of an age, you see, miss.
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