The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. I—I hurt myself. I want her to tell me the whole truth about this extraordinary marriage. This is not what I want. His smile faded. It seemed to make her sister downcast beyond any precedent.
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