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All your faults are just jolly modelling to make you real and solid. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. 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. White assented. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines. I understand.
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