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. Mind, when we were all growed up, it were different. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica to the darkness; “I’ll fight it.
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