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. We already had a place to mislay blame. ‘That rascally knave sent you to become a French nun?’ Looking positively terrified, the girl nodded dumbly. "Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion.
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