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The Miller Of Old Church by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow
page 67 of 435 (15%)
impulsiveness, her pride, her lack of self-control, all these marked her
kinship not to Reuben Merryweather, but to Jonathan Gay. The qualities
against which she rebelled cried aloud in her rebellion. The inheritance
she abhorred endowed her with the capacity for that abhorrence. While
she accused the Gays, she stood revealed a Gay in every tone, in every
phrase, in every gesture.

"It isn't you, Molly, that speaks like that," he said, "it's something
in you." She had tried his patience almost to breaking, yet in the very
strain and suffering she put upon him, she had, all unconsciously to
them both, strengthened the bond by which she held him.

"If I'd known you were going to preach, I shouldn't have stopped to
speak to you," she rejoined coldly. "I'd rather hear Mr. Mullen."

He stood the attack without flinching, his hazel eyes full of an angry
light and the sunburnt colour in his face paling a little. Then when she
had finished, he turned slowly away and began tightening the feed strap
of the mill.

For a minute Molly paused on the threshold in the band of sunlight. "For
God's sake speak, Abel," she said at last, "what pleasure do you think I
find in being spiteful when you won't strike back?"

"I'll never strike back; you may keep up your tirading forever."

"I wouldn't have said it if I'd known you'd take it so quietly."

"Quietly? Did you expect me to pick you up and throw you into the
hopper?"
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