‘Speak, then. ’ Jack gasped. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked.
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