"Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. He never felt any need to explain himself. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved. "Hear me!" cried Thames, bursting into tears.
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