The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. The next moment he was by her side. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person.
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