In Paddington. 277 “I was beginning to think that I would never see you again, Lucy. More importantly, she had her wits. They vanished through the doorway. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. Women are not in the world in the same sense that men are—fighting individuals in a scramble. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. It always comes out sooner or later.
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