"What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. ‘Well, water under the bridge is that, miss. Lord, I am sixty. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be.
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