She had eaten them. She would marry him. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. 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. So you are Prudence Remenham. This gloom was impossible. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. She spent many days in the castle alone as he busied himself with his alchemy, or traveled to Florence to visit his remaining political connections. ” An awkward moment of silence followed. All my plans have succeeded.
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