It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage.
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