“Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I want to be whatever I can to you. I know South America and Canada like the lines in my hand. " "Here you have it, my dear," returned the hawker. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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