“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. I know now that I was mistaken. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. ’ ‘So that you may interest yourself in my affairs even more?’ ‘Then I will go with you,’ he offered. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. You'll never be guided by me—never!" "Indeed, my love, you're entirely mistaken," returned the carpenter, endeavouring to deprecate his wife's rising resentment by the softest looks, and the meekest deportment.
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