As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. "There he is!" cried Winifred, starting up, joyfully, and proving by the exclamation that her thoughts were dwelling upon one subject only. "Go to lunch," he ordered Ruth. ‘Bête. There isn’t. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs.
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