It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. You had better go to bed. “I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. “You’ll get me to allude to it, but you’d have to torture me to admit it.
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