If it wasn’t for the fear that after all—but we won’t think of that. I would speak with you. Wood. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Unconscious of the interest he excited, and entirely occupied by his own thoughts—which, if his bosom could have been examined, would have been found composed of mingled hopes and fears—the young man walked on till he came to an old house, with great projecting bay windows on the first floor, and situated as nearly as possible at the back of St. Love lives on a higher plane.
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