"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. That is the dreadful truth. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever.
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