This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command. ‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman. 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. I take it, down where we're going will be nothing new to you.
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