“Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. And what a noise they made! This is how I used to call them. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. “Dear me!” he said. I will hold Hilary in check, never fear. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object.
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