The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. He had seldom been more perturbed. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. She could not make up her mind which was the finer, more elemental thing, which gave its values to the other. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated.
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