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Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

"The Forfeit"


"You sure aren't. No man is. Ther' ain't a feller on earth worthy my
little Nan. But it's up to her. Guess she's around inside som'eres."
There was the sound of swift footsteps on the veranda. Nan drew
further back into the room. The far wall alone stayed her progress.
The door was to her hand, but she made no attempt to avail herself of
it. Oh, those delicious moments of terror. It seemed to her as if
every joy of life was concentrated in them. Her breath came pantingly.
The moments became insupportable.
Suddenly a figure, tall, slim, filled the open window. Swift as a
flash the mind of the girl went back to the long months of nursing when
he had lain helpless in her hands. He had been hers then in his
helplessness. Now, in his full manhood's strength, he was coming to
her again. A choking sensation seized her, a mist grew before her eyes.
"Nan!"
The tone of it The softness. The thrilling passion.
"Yes, Jeff."
The answer was low, almost inaudible.
Nor did the man have to search the darkened room.


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