And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves. “Ugh!” she said. There would be no mercy in this man. Alarmed by the noise of the scuffle, Quilt and Sharples rushed to the assistance of their comrade. And I've made up my mind that a husband ought to believe only half that he hears, and nothing that he sees. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. But that was all over.
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