" "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He’s—He lives in a world of possibilities outside your imagination. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. As it happens sometimes, the idea stepped down from the dream into the reality; and he saw it more clearly now than he had seen it in the dream. Might we ask you if you have ever seen him, if you knew him at all before this evening?” She stood up suddenly, and turning her back to them, looked steadily out of the window. "But, I own, I think it is like. But this chap is good wine yet. And the hunter home from the hill.
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