“Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. I don’t wish to marry you at all. ” He said jealously. ‘To see Charvill. Paul's are his work. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. And I don’t. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time.
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