I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. But it was only six-thirty.
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