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. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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