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Stratton-Porter, Gene, 1863-1924

"Freckles"

It would be only a manly thing for him to think this out, and
save her from the results of her own blessed bigness of heart.
"I railly must be off," said Freckles earnestly, "but I'm thanking you
more than you'll ever know for your kindness. I'll just be drinking
bowls of icy things all me way home in the thoughts of it."
Down came the Angel's foot. Her eyes flashed indignantly. "There's no
sense in that," she said. "How do you think you would have felt when you
knew I was warm and thirsty and you went and brought me a drink and
I wouldn't take it because--because goodness knows why! You can ride
faster to make up for the time. I've just thought out what I want to fix
for you."
She stepped to his side and deliberately slipped her hand under his
arm--that right arm that ended in an empty sleeve.
"You are coming," she said firmly. "I won't have it."
Freckles could not have told how he felt, neither could anyone else. His
blood rioted and his head swam, but he kept his wits. He bent over her.
"Please don't, Angel," he said softly.


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