"You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. For a time it really seemed all-sufficient to her that she should love. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. ” The talk became more and more inconclusive and exhausting. “But I am at singing-pitch. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves. Quite!” He sat in the arm-chair and took tea, and consumed several of the extra cakes which she had sent out for and talked to her and expressed himself, looking very earnestly at her with his deep-set eyes, and carefully avoiding any crumbs on his mustache the while. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. I don't want her hurt.
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