“Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. " "He then," continued the woollen-draper, "is no longer considered—" "How, Sir?" cried Thames, advancing, "what is the meaning of your reference to my name? Have you dared to insult this lady? If so—" "Insult her!" replied Kneebone, rising, and endeavouring to hide his embarrassment under a look of defiance. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved. The Idle Apprentice.
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