I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. "My friends need not fear my return. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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