I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory. Too late. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. “Sold again,” she remarked. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie.
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