The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. The G. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. It was his heart.
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