"Tell me the truth, I implore you," cried Thames. " "Jack's mother?" exclaimed the young man. Wood, furiously. It had gone with the rest. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck.
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