” Capes let his oar smack on the water. "You are out betimes this morning, Mr. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. I'm going through his pockets. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. Always at your service. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you.
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