He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life. ’ Fury was in her face. Kneebone. 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.
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