Love was joy, and joyous she was when alone. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. I'll think no more about her. ‘If you did not want me to talk of it,’ she told him with characteristic insouciance, ‘you should not have mentioned the matter to me. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. There's not his peer among the peerage.
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