"Didn't you sleep good, Will?"
Sanderson looked fairly at her. That "Will" was already an irritation
to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was
playing. He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was
determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a
repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister
variety.
He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when he
knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike
murdering him.
"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for the
name Bransford. That's why I changed my name to Sanderson. I never
liked to be called 'Will.' Hereafter I want you to call me
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson. Then mebbe I'll feel more like myself."
She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.
It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, and
that in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and her
brother of yesterday.
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