A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. Easy enough. "I've proofs to the contrary," replied Jonathan. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. Somehow. "Well, I'm sure Winifred could never have loved you as well as I do," said Mrs. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. And I’ll have that story off you as we journey back to town.
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