You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. But it’s as you say. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. 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. ‘She may well try to go back. She no longer felt sick or dizzy, her muscles returned to a relaxed, supple state.
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