She refused to eat. ‘I think you know my affianced husband. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. She felt like a dried-up old woman. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. The summer arrived, speeding the Plague and with it the famine in the streets. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision. Sir John stood upon the threshold. A queer nut. E. .
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