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. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. She too had seen. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses. I know that you were disappointed because I did not turn out to be the millionaire.
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