She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. 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. . ’ Pottiswick sucked at his teeth through the gaps. " Sir Rowland bit his lips to repress the answer that rose to them.
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