"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The door is open, so it is needless to ask leave to enter. "I yield to fate. Who knows?—on the analogy of “Squiggles” she might come to call him “Mangles!” “I don’t think I can ever marry any one,” she said, and fell suddenly into another set of considerations that perplexed her for a time. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. "You were saying—?" "I started to say something; that is all. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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