I hope I haven't given any unintentional offence?" said the widow, again meekly appealing to Wood. “I don’t understand. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. He walked hastily to the side of the broad pavement and summoned a fiacre. “Yet it is my last evening, and I think —if you are sure that you would like to have me—that I will risk it. Before our marriage there will be no life between you and the estates. Sheppard. What’s that?” They both stood listening. You've saved my life. ‘Well, if that’s what the good Lord wants, then you’ll just have to accept it. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless.
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