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She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. The darkness prevented the carpenter from discerning the features or figure of the stranger; and the ceaseless din precluded the possibility of holding any communication by words with him. But there have been times, Anna, when your work has startled me.
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