“It isn’t a joke,” she said. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. When she entered the office a strange scene was presented to her startled gaze.
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