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The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Nothing has been touched since. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them. “What can you do?” she asked. God must love me, for he has guided me here. He found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge. Maggot tenderly. Here is one verse.

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