I’m not Gerald, remember. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. They mean something. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want. 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 let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time. Jests are not for seasons like this. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him.
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