"Oh God! she is dying," exclaimed Jack in a voice suffocated by emotion. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. "Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. He declined supper, but took wine. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Ray did not pace, he just stood. “I have given it up,” she answered. "What! refuse to see a person who desires to speak with me. She’s right upstairs. "Come to my arms, Thames! Oh! dear! Oh! dear!" To repeat the questions and congratulations which now ensued, or describe the extravagant joy of the carpenter, who, after he had hugged his adopted son to his breast with such warmth as almost to squeeze the breath from his body, capered around the room, threw his wig into the empty fire-grate, and committed various other fantastic actions, in order to get rid of his superfluous satisfaction—to describe the scarcely less extravagant raptures of his spouse, or the more subdued, but not less heartfelt delight of Winifred, would be a needless task, as it must occur to every one's imagination. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. ‘How she pouted, and tried to make out that she had been imposed upon. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss.
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