"I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. ‘You do not try. "Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Owing to this circumstance, Mr. It was empty. Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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