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 &quot;It's the difference that makes you care for me, then?&quot; he broke out, with a kind of violence which seemed to renew his clutch on her wrist.

&quot;The difference?&quot;

He lashed the ponies again, so sharply that a murmur escaped her, and he drew them up, quivering, with an inconsequent &quot;Steady, boys,&quot; at which their back-laid ears protested.

&quot;It's because I'm moral and respectable, and all that, that you're fond of me,&quot; he went on; &quot;you're—you're simply in love with my virtues. You could n't imagine caring if I were down there in the ditch, as you say, with Arthur?&quot;

The question fell on a silence which seemed to deepen suddenly within herself. Every thought hung bated on the sense that something was coming: her whole consciousness became a void to receive it.

&quot;Denis!&quot; she cried.