” “Oh, Lucy, I never have stopped thinking about you since the first day I walked you home. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. The clergyman, meanwhile, proceeded with the service, while the coffin was deposited at the brink of the grave. But you! Ruth is your lawful wife. That he should pay forty pounds to help this girl who preferred another man was no less in his eyes than a fraud and mockery that made her denial a maddening and outrageous disgrace to him. I hate what I am.
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