Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. “What can you do?” she asked. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. "Most persons would have guessed my meaning. ” He receded from her.
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