“He is a sad blunderer. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. You see, it's like this. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. Seeing her improved mood, he had offered the Latin reading lesson strategically, knowing it would surprise her that he considered her capable. I wish they would just get it over with. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. He was a Canton guide, highly educated, having been graduated from Yale University.
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