“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr.
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