That really settles about that. Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. "If you knew how much importance I attach to your answer," he continued passionately, "you would not refuse me one. " So saying, he re-entered the house, closed the door, and, followed by the widow, proceeded to the fire-place, where a handful of chips, apparently just lighted, crackled within the rusty grate. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. Anybody in pain had only to call to him. But let the horses be in readiness. They pressed more insistently, forcing her lips open.
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