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. “Very,” and cracked a walnut appreciatively. Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. She could not part with dignity. I would like to have to tell it so.
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