“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. “I’m thirsty. " She departed reluctantly. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck.
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