"Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. . ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. But I dare not accept it. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release.
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