"Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. He was almost paralyzed with nervousness and desire. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. " "Well, well, I'm not within a minute," rejoined the turnkey.
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