He looked melancholy enough, it is true. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. Wood turned to look at him. "May I be cursed," muttered Sheppard, as he slunk away with (as the woollendraper pleasantly observed) 'a couple of boxes in charge,' "if ever I try to be honest again!" "Take a little toasted cheese with the swig, Mr. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ protested Hilary angrily. We simply can’t get away.
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