So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. 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. "You know my fixed determination," he added in a low tone, as he passed the carpenter. .
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