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At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. " "I liked that, too," she replied; "but it wasn't that I had in mind. Her voice was soft and singularly musical; but from time to time she uttered old-fashioned words which forced him to grope mentally. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. During the foregoing occurrences a dead calm prevailed. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel.
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