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Show "Nay, thou knowest not the story entire," the man said, his face plainly showing his misery. "Thou darest not pair with the Smith-Sheblem boy-thou seest?-thou must pair with the good Armand Gundarholt, the Merchant's y o u n g e s t . . . ." Dr'Anya gasped and put a hand to her cheek. "But my father, I know not such a person, I know him not at a l l . . ." "A fine pair, the Good Gundarholts, my child," her father broke in. "They have grieved these many TwelveMonths over the deaths of their older four sons in the SouthEastTartars." He brushed back his hair nervously and then hurried on. "The boys were on a trading trip with their parents-thou seest?-and were swooped down upon by a company of outlaw Northerners and killed outright, the whole four; save the parents who escaped unharmed. 'Twas thirty-four TwelveMonths ago. They had only the one son left, the fair Armand who was but six TwelveMonths old at that fateful time." He turned to his daughter, putting on a bluff and hearty air. "Ah, but how they dote on the boy, my girl! And they have given him everything, all of their riches-and how rich they are!" He slapped the mantle, increasing his jovial manner in direct proportion to the disappointment, nay despair, growing apace on the features of the young Anya. "They are richer by far than ten of the Smith-Sheblems put together." The young Anya clasped her hands at her breast and looked at her father beseechingly. "Ah, my father, but we need not be rich, thou and I...we have simple tastes, my father..-" The man grasped his cane and hobbled over to his daughter-for he was much troubled with arthritis by then. "But, mark'st thou my child, my fair 101 |