She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. "Ah!" exclaimed Wild, looking angrily towards his supposed attendant. They were very nice about it, in memory of your father. Stanley.
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